Darkest Before Dawn
by The She Devil
Summary: Nick is fatally wounded during a routine investigation, leaving Greg behind to figure out how to do this on his own. Nick/Greg slash, Greg/Sara friendship. This is mostly a Greg-centered fic.
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn

AUTHOR: The She Devil

EMAIL: thranowski at gmail

CATEGORY: Drama

RATING: T for language.

SPOILERS: I don't think any, really, but it takes place in recent seasons.

ARCHIVE: Please ask first.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything.

SUMMARY: Nick is fatally wounded during a routine investigation, leaving Greg behind to figure out how to do this on his own. Nick/Greg slash, Greg/Sara friendship. This is mostly a Greg-centered fic.

NOTES: So here's another one. I promise my next fic will be fluffy, if there is another one. I did have a lot of fun writing this story, however depressing it may seem. Lots of Greg, lots of hurt/comfort. Anyway, enjoy. This is kind of a short story, but I broke it up into chapters so it wouldn't be so overwhelming. Oh, and again, no beta, so I apologize for any mistakes.

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><p>It began as any other day. They woke up, ate dinner, got ready for work. Walked the dog, fed her, told her they loved her before they left. Drove in together while listening to the local country music station in comfortable silence. Arrived at work and headed into the lockers. Put their things away, stepped into the hallway, and shared a knowing glance with each other before parting ways and disappearing into the bowels of the LVPD crime lab.<p>

The same as any other day, they worked on previously assigned cases and new ones. Saw each other throughout the night, shared takeout during their break, got back to work. Exchanged endearing smiles when no one was looking. A gentle squeeze of the arm that lasted just a moment too long. A whisper of promises to come.

Different than any other night, they would not go home together. They would never go home together again.

They were hovering around Hodges, eagerly awaiting the results of trace evidence that may indicate where their victim was killed before she had been dumped in a shallow grave in the vast Las Vegas desert.

"If you wait here," Hodges said irritably, "this does not go any faster. In fact, the two of you create a time-space continuum that actually slows down time."

"Is that so?" Greg asked, fidgeting with a glass pipette as he sat on one of the counters. He twirled the glass between his slender fingers like a drummer would a drumstick, albeit perhaps not as gracefully. "Is this some kind of _Dr. Who_ reference?"

"No," Hodges replied, taking the _expensive_ glass pipette out of Greg's hands. "It's a scientific fact."

"You'll have to dumb this down for me," Nick said, snatching the pipette out of Hodges' hands, tossing it over Hodges' shoulder to Greg, who caught it clumsily. "I don't speak geek."

"Give that to me!" Hodges demanded, as he grabbed the pipette out of Greg's hands once more. "You're going to break something. Don't the two of you have something more important to do? Crimes to solve, lives to save?"

Nick shrugged. "Not really. It's a pretty slow night."

"Yeah, this is pretty much all I've got too," Greg agreed, much to Hodges' dismay.

"I've got something for you guys." D.B.'s voice from the doorway. He leaned in, holding up a yellow slip. "Dead body in an abandoned house."

"All right," Nick said with faux excitement, taking the paper from his supervisor's hands. "In the hood, too. It's our lucky night, G."

"Have fun," Hodges called, as the two men left his lab.

Greg turned in the doorway, pointing at Hodges with both hands as he left. "Have that trace ready when we get back."

"You got it," he replied, smiling tightly. "Just don't come back too soon."

If Hodges had known that would be the last thing he would ever say to one of the two men, he might have found kinder words.

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><p>The house was small, and while the building appeared to be abandoned, clearly someone had been living there. Two mattresses lay on the floor of what would have been the living room, along with blankets and some very basic necessities. On one of the mattresses was a body with three gunshot wounds to the chest. It must have been there for at least a few days. The same case they had worked multiple times in the past: unknown black male shot to death in the projects.<p>

Silently, the two men worked with a small LED lantern lighting their way. Took pictures and collected evidence, waiting for the coroner to arrive before touching the body. Dr. Robbins was stuck in an autopsy, David at another scene, and it appeared to be a while before anyone would be able to arrive.

"I'm gonna get some coffee," the police officer at the door said, sticking his thumb towards his cruiser. "You guys'll be okay for a minute?"

"Yeah, sure," Nick responded absently, focusing on scrolling through his e-mails on his phone.

"Want anything?"

"No, thanks," Nick said. "If I drink any more coffee tonight my heart will explode."

"I'll take some," Greg said, pulling some cash out of his wallet and handing it to the officer. "Just black."

"I don't know why you always order coffee out," Nick mused, after the officer had left. "You never like it unless you brew it, and you always end up disappointed."

"You know I like a good tease," Greg said, smirking, and was pleased to see one corner of Nick's mouth twitch, however much the older man might have tried to remain stoic. Greg leaned against an old wooden desk, staring out one of the side windows that wasn't boarded up with plywood. Watched shadows of men and children running in and out of alleys and buildings. Up and down sidewalks. Checked his watch for the twentieth time.

"If you keep looking, time goes slower," Nick commented idly.

Greg grinned. "Is this that time-space continuum Hodges was talking about?"

Nick only met Greg's eyes for a moment, offering him an amused smile. Car tires screeched outside, interrupting the quiet of the night, grabbing the attention of both men. Nick considered it briefly before returning his gaze to his cell phone. Greg had been close to the open front door, and he curiously took a couple steps forward to take a quick look. Lightening flashed and thunder boomed in the street as he felt a pressure in his chest close to his right shoulder, and he felt the air escape his lungs as his breath was stolen from him. A sudden hot bolt of pain in his thigh, then again at his hip, both on his left side. He was propelled backwards and onto the ground, barely registering his head hitting the hard wooden floor with a sickening crack.

It was so loud inside of the small room, the loudest fireworks Greg had ever heard. Wood was splintering above him, glass shattering as the windows burst inwards. The small LED lantern exploded, allowing darkness to envelope the room. What was happening?

It was suddenly quiet, except for the loud ringing in Greg's ears. He lay on the floor, his breathing ragged as he attempted to regain his bearings. Touched his chest, feeling a sticky and warm liquid. He examined his hand in the dimly lit room, his trembling fingertips stained bright red. A trigger went off in his brain, and he was suddenly aware of pain in his leg and hip, in his chest. Suddenly aware of what exactly had happened.

"Nick," he breathed, leaning up on his left elbow, his other arm throbbing with pain radiating from his chest. He dared to look at his leg, gasping at the sight of a dark red stain growing on his jeans. Another dark red stain on his hip right above the one on his leg. Where was Nick?

"Nick," he said again, turning to see the older CSI lying prone on the floor several feet away. It was too dark for Greg to see anything more, but he could hear him. Could hear him gasping, struggling to breathe. Or was that Greg?

Greg turned onto his side, the pain in his hip searing right through him. He cried out in pain, white flashing through his brain as he saw stars. Took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He needed to get to Nick.

Slowly, he dragged himself across the room, leaving a trail of red blood in his wake. His right arm was tingling with a pins and needles sensation, and he was afraid soon he wouldn't be able to feel it. His hip was on fire, throbbing worse than the rest of his wounds, and he was trying not to panic as his lightheadedness grew. He couldn't pass out, not before making sure Nick was all right.

"Nick," he said, for the third time with no response as he reached the other man. He propped himself up on his left elbow in a semi-sitting position as he attempted to assess how badly Nick was injured. He touched Nick's stab vest with his right hand, running his fingers over the fabric, attempting to read the damage like a blind man could read braille. Felt dampness at Nick's stomach, his chest. His trembling fingers found Nick's neck, found another wet and sticky wound.

"Shit," he hissed. "Nick. Nick, please, Nick, talk to me."

He scrambled to pull his cell phone out of his pocket. Frantically, he pressed the home screen, horrified by the sight of bloody fingerprints on the cracked screen as it illuminated. He aimed the light at Nick, but he wished he hadn't.

There was blood everywhere. A bubbling, gurgling sound emanating from the bullet wound in Nick's chest. Blood seeping quickly from the gaping wound in Nick's neck. He looked at Nick's face. He was gasping for air, his mouth open, his lips stained red. Looked into Nick's eyes. They were half-closed, but he wasn't gone. Not yet. But Greg could see the life flickering in and out of them, and it was a haunting image he would not soon forget.

"Nick, please, please," he begged, his voice thick. He pressed his hand firmly against the wound on Nick's neck, but his arm was numb and he couldn't tell if it was firm enough. "Fuck, Nick. Fuck. _Fuck_."

He dialed 911, his bloody, slick fingers clumsily pressing the screen. Pressed the speakerphone button and dropped the phone to the floor. Used both hands to press on the wounds on Nick's body, but he wasn't sure if he had the strength. He wasn't even sure how many wounds there were.

"911," a female voice answered on the other end of the line. "Police, fire or medical?"

"Medical, please," he said desperately. "I'm with the LVPD. We've been shot, please, I need help, we need help."

"Sir, what's your location?"

He gave her the address. "Please hurry, please. My partner...my partner's dying."

"Emergency responders are on the way, sir," she replied. "Have you both been shot?"

"Yes," he replied, the light on his phone dimming, once again sending them into darkness.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"Drive by," he said, his breathing becoming more labored. He felt as if he were in twilight, holding on to consciousness by only a gossamer of a thread. "I think they knew we were here."

"Are you safe?"

"I don't know."

"Is your friend awake?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said again, but he could still see those half-closed eyes in his mind.

"What's your name?"

"Greg."

"Greg, my name is Katie," she said, her voice suddenly very gentle. "I need you to stay with me. Stay calm and stay with me."

"Okay," he agreed breathlessly, but his voice betrayed him. Felt darkness creeping into the edges of his mind, felt the allure of sleep calling him like a siren luring a sailor out to sea. "Katie, I'm tired."

"Stay with me," she urged again. "You need to stay awake for your partner, okay? Tell me his name."

"Nick," he replied quietly. "His name is Nick."

"They're only two minutes away. Just stay with me." She kept saying it, as if she wished it enough, it would be true. "Just stay with me until they arrive. Stay with Nick, okay?"

"Katie," Greg said, hot tears escaping his eyes. He pulled himself onto his knees, doubling over at his waist to slump over Nick, laying his head down against Nick's chest. His right arm was numb, his left gently touching Nick's hair. "Katie, can you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Can you please tell Nick I tried to stay awake?" he asked, his eyelids heavy, a choked sob escaping his lips. "And please don't tell him I cried."

"Greg, stay with me," she pleaded. "It'll only be a little longer."

"Tell him I'm sorry," he whispered. "Tell him I love him."

"Greg!" she shouted, right before the darkness claimed him.

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><p>To be continued. Please leave me some love! Or flames, if that's your thing.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

"_Merry Christmas," Nick murmured into Greg's ear, coming up behind him to spoon in their bed. "I've got a big Christmas package for you."_

_Greg burst into laughter. "I don't remember seeing any big packages around here."_

"_I guess you don't want it then."_

"_No, no, I'll take it," Greg said, his fingers trailing over Nick's hip. "I love average- to medium-sized Christmas packages."_

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><p>"<em>I don't think a dog is such a good idea," Nick said as they stood in the shelter, dozens of dogs barking and howling around them.<em>

"_Come on," Greg urged. "It's too late now. We're already here, they're already looking at us. You can't turn back now."_

_Nick's eyes traveled over all of the dogs in various shapes and sizes. Landed on an ugly, old white mutt whose tail was wagging so hard the metal of her cage rattled loudly._

"_That one," Nick said, pointing. The volunteer worker opened the cage, the old female dog bounding down the corridor and heading straight for them. She jumped and licked and circled around them with the energy of a puppy, and they were hers. All hers._

"_What will we call her?" Greg asked, his fingers scratching behind her ears._

"_Daisy," Nick replied with certainty._

_Greg nodded. "A beautiful name for a beautiful girl."_

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><p><em>Drunk at Greg's apartment watching a college football game. Greg wasn't really interested in college football – or any sports, for that matter – but he enjoyed spending time with his friend. Couldn't imagine in just a few months that they would be more than friends. Couldn't imagine in just a few years that they would wear matching rings.<em>

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><p>"<em>Greg," Nick breathed, hovering over Greg as they moved together, making love on a rare Sunday afternoon they both had off from work. Nick's ring dangled over him on the necklace around Nick's neck, glinting in the lowering sun."Greg...stay with me."<em>

"_I'm here," Greg whispered, gripping Nick's shoulders, pulling him closer, and he never wanted to let him go._

"_Can you hear me?"_

"_What?" he asked, confused. "Of course I can hear you."_

"_Can you hear me?" Nick asked again. "I need you to stay with me."_

"_I don't understand."_

"_Greg, stay with me."_

"_Greg."_

"_Greg!"_

He was pulled into consciousness with a start, his eyes snapping open to bright and harsh fluorescent lights. Pain. All he knew was pain, and he couldn't breathe and he didn't know what was happening. There was something obstructing his view, a pressure on his face. He was inside of a small space, faces hovering over him.

"Greg, can you hear me?" A woman's firm voice talking to him. "Stay with me, okay? Do you know where you are?"

An ambulance. He was in an ambulance, and there was an oxygen mask on his face, and he didn't have any clothes on.

"Do you you know where you are?" she repeated.

"Where's Nick?" he croaked, his mind spinning.

"They took him in another ambulance," she replied.

"Is he okay?"

She shared a look with the other paramedic before turning her eyes back to Greg. "I'm sure he's fine. Do you have any allergies to any foods or medications, Greg? This is an important question, I need you to answer me."

He was dizzy and nauseous, and suddenly he felt as if he would be sick. He couldn't catch his breath. Tasted copper on his tongue. Heard urgent beeping as alarms began blaring. He was suddenly combative, trying to remove his oxygen mask and pull his IV lines, swinging his arms at the paramedics in an attempt to push them away. His body's instincts were kicking in as he began to physically fight for air in the small space of the ambulance rig.

"O2 sats are hitting the 80's."

"Give me the restraints," the male paramedic said, before the darkness took him once more.

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><p>Greg was there but not there. He could hear, but only pieces of conversations were registering in his brain. Could see only through a dim haze, and that was when he wasn't too tired to keep his eyes open. He knew he should be in pain, but his body was numb. He felt as if he were trapped underwater, unable to muster enough strength to swim up and break the surface of the sea. He felt as if he were drowning. He felt as if he were dying.<p>

He was dying.

"Thirty-eight-year-old male, GSW to the chest, through-and-through. One to the leg and one to the hip, no exit wounds. GCS 4, pulse 164. O2 sats less than 90. Thirty milliliters of normal saline given until he blew out his IV."

"Why is he restrained? Is he dangerous?"

"He was fighting us in the rig. He's just disoriented, he's been in and out. He's lost a lot of blood, we haven't been able to stabilize him."

"All right, give me a large-bore IV, wide open, and let's get rid of these restraints."

There were so many people fluttering around him, talking quickly and loudly over the sounds of beeping alarms. Hands touching him, poking him, hurting him, and it was all so overwhelming. He felt himself panicking, his heart was racing and he couldn't seem to catch his breath. A face leaned over him, a beautiful woman with long dark hair. She blocked the bright, circular exam light above him, creating a false glow of sanctity behind her head. Was she here to claim him? To take him to the bottom of the sea?

"What's your name?" she asked with a melodious Spanish accent. Her smile was gentle, but her voice was firm.

"Greg," he barely was able to whisper.

"Greg, I'm Dr. Ramirez. This is Dr. Hunt. We're going to take good care of you, okay?" She turned to one of the several nurses beside her. "Get the ultrasound, and page the ortho surgeon on call. His leg is a mess."

"No breath sounds on the right, decreased breath sounds on the left," Dr. Hunt said, before removing his stethoscope from Greg's chest and shoving it into his lab coat pocket. "Get me a 28 french."

Greg's eyes traveled around the room as he attempted to gain his bearings, and he caught sight of two large, swinging doors to his right. A nurse pushed through them to move into the next room, and he could see a flurry of movement beyond the threshold. It was much louder and more chaotic. Alarms were blaring and everyone was yelling as they frantically worked, but Greg couldn't make out what they were saying. There was a man lying on a gurney, white sheets stained red with blood, one arm hanging limply over the side. It was Nick, but he didn't look like Nick. He looked ashen and frail; he looked like a stranger. Someone was pumping a bag of air into a tube in his mouth. Someone else was standing ready with a defibrillator. There were physicians barking orders and nurses pushing medications and opening all kinds of disposable medical kits. The doors swung back and forth only for a brief moment before they closed, and then Nick was gone.

"What are they doing to him?" Greg asked, grabbing Dr. Ramirez' arm. She had been gliding an ultrasound wand across his chest, studying the machine's screen intently. She briefly followed his gaze to the next room.

"Is that your partner?" she asked.

"Yes. What are they doing to him? Is he going to be okay?"

"They're doing everything they can," she replied almost dismissively, returning her gaze back to Dr. Hunt. "He's got bone fragments in his lungs and around his heart. Looks like his diaphragm and stomach are damaged too."

"Someone page surgery and let's get a foley in," Dr. Hunt ordered.

"Is he going to be okay?" Greg asked again, agitated. Why were they ignoring him? Didn't they know this was important? He pulled his oxygen mask down, propping himself on his left elbow as he attempted to see through the windows of the doors. "What are they doing to him?"

"Greg, they're working on him," Dr. Ramirez said, gently pushing on his shoulder. "You have to stay still, you've been very seriously injured."

"What are they doing to him?" he demanded. "Can you check on him, please? Just check on him for me. Please? I just want to make sure he's going to be okay."

Dr. Ramirez sighed, looking at the other physician and then to the nurse beside her. "Carla, please check on him."

Carla nodded, pushing open one of the doors, but only enough to peek her head in. Her body blocked Greg's view, but not the noise. He could once again hear monitors blaring, voices shouting, but he still couldn't understand what they were saying. His mind was spinning, he couldn't get his brain to focus, and he was so angry he couldn't pull himself together. The nurse came back into the room, looking at Dr. Ramirez with uncertainty, but Greg could see something else in her eyes too. Something much darker.

Dr. Ramirez smiled comfortingly at Greg. "They're still working on him, but he looks good."

There was a sudden, searing pain in his left side, followed by an intense pressure pushing into him. He felt as if he were being stabbed, his insides shifting as something bored its way into his chest. He cried out in pain, hot tears escaping his eyes, his breath exploding from him in short bursts.

"Chest tube's in," Dr. Hunt announced. "Lots of fluid here."

"You're going to need surgery, Greg," Dr. Ramirez said. "Is there someone we can call for you?"

"Nick," he said, because that's who would have been called on any other day. Nick would be here with him, holding his hand and telling him that everything was going to be okay.

"Who's Nick?" Dr. Ramirez asked, leaning closer to him. "Your father? Your son? A friend?"

"I think that's who's next door," Carla responded quietly. She looked at Greg. "Do you have any family, Greg?"

"I feel sick," Greg said, his stomach turning. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Turn him!" Dr. Hunt yelled, and he felt hands on him, rolling him towards the edge of the gurney. Someone pulled his oxygen mask off. He vomited violently, gripping the hard metal guardrail as he tasted acid and copper and watched in horror as bright red blood spilled to the floor. Suddenly, everyone was shouting in a volume and intensity that had matched Nick's room.

"Sats are dropping! He's bradycardic!"

"Push an amp of epi! Get me the intubation tray!"

"He's going to arrest!"

"We're losing him!"

Greg felt himself rapidly sinking further and further underwater. He fought hard to swim towards the light and break the surface, but he was so tired. He felt so heavy. Imagined Nick in the next room, his lifeless, pale body on blood-soaked sheets. Remembered the look the nurse had given Dr. Ramirez. Thought maybe he'd meet Nick at the bottom of the sea. Maybe he was already down there waiting for him. How nice would it be to see him again? So he closed his eyes, and allowed himself to drown.

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><p>To be continued.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you all for your kind words so far, and of course for reading. :)

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><p>Greg remained at the bottom of the ocean for a long time, but he could always see the glittering light right above the surface. There were times he swore he could feel Nick's fingers brushing against his, but he couldn't quite reach out and grasp them. Felt that if he could just slip his hand into Nick's, he would be taken permanently into the darkness. And he wanted to go. He wanted to be with Nick. But every time he felt that seductive caress at his fingertips, every time he felt that he would finally catch Nick's hand, something would pull his attention back to that glittering light, and then the touch would be gone and he would be alone.<p>

Sometimes, he was sure he had already been pulled into the darkness. Perhaps he was in Purgatory, and this was his final purification as he was made ready for the vision of Heaven. He had always been taught that Purgatory was only a temporary condition of torment for those without mortal sins, but he had killed two men in his life: Dimitrius James and Nick Stokes. And while he may not have killed Nick, he was pretty sure he hadn't successfully saved his life, and it sure felt the same to him.

So perhaps he was in Hell. Maybe this was his fate, to live at the bottom of the sea for the rest of his eternal days. Sometimes, he thought that was true. Because sometimes, at the bottom of the sea, he would see those half-closed eyes staring at him. Sometimes, they were empty. But sometimes, they were begging Greg to save him, and that was the worst of all.

Then, one day, Greg felt those fingers brushing against his. But they weren't coming from the bottom of the sea this time. They were coming from above. They reached for his hand, gently, tenderly, pulling him closer to the glittering light. And he saw those eyes, but they weren't empty. They were a deep, intense brown illuminated and alive with a bright fire that challenged the sun. They softened at the sight of Greg, smiling at him, beckoning him, and he knew everything was going to be okay.

That was the day Greg broke the surface.

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><p>The first person he saw in what he was almost sure was real life (and not the bottom of the sea) was a woman standing beside him. She was focused on something else, and she hadn't noticed him yet, but he could see her. She moved fluidly, as if she had done this a thousand times before, but he wasn't quite sure what she was doing. Something at his arm, near his elbow. She was humming as she did whatever it was she was doing, and the sound was foreign to Greg's ear. He had only heard water for...well, he wasn't sure how long. But it was a welcome relief to hear her.<p>

Her eyes met his, and she smiled as she ceased in her humming.

"Hey there, sweetie," she said cheerily, leaning closer to him. "Where you been?"

He wasn't sure. But wherever he'd come from, he was very tired after his journey, and it wasn't long before he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.

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><p>The second person he encountered was someone in a white coat. He would only stand at the foot of Greg's bed, and Greg didn't like him. He kept waking him up and trying to talk to him, to coax him into conversation. He would ask Greg all kinds of questions and try to get him to do things, but Greg was tired and the man didn't have kind eyes. Why would he want to talk to somebody that looked so grouchy? Greg didn't have time for this, and would only consider the man in the white coat briefly before yawning and stubbornly returning to the comforts of sleep.<p>

* * *

><p>The third person Greg saw in real life was someone he was sure he knew. She was sitting in the chair beside him, her dark and wavy hair draped over her shoulders, her sweatshirt two sizes too big. She looked tired, but more than that. She was weary, the wrinkle between her eyebrows too prominent for her age. She was looking at something else besides him, and he wasn't sure how to get her attention, but he knew he wanted to talk to her. He just couldn't seem to command his body to move. He was too heavy.<p>

He waited until she looked at him, although he really didn't have a choice. First, she touched him, her fingers gently trailing patterns on the back of his hand. They moved to a paper bracelet around his wrist. To the course hairs on his arm. Her eyes followed her touch, her brow knotted and that little line between her eyebrows creased. She was frowning. She looked so serious.

Finally, her eyes traveled up his arm and to his face, and finally, she saw him. She smiled at him, her hard expression softening immediately.

"Greg," she whispered, her gentle fingers brushing his hair back behind his ear. "There you are."

He wanted to say something to her, but he didn't know how. Felt a longing in his chest that he didn't understand. A deep and thick haze of confusion surrounded his brain, and he was sure she could answer all of his questions if he could just find the words. Who was she? Where was he? What was happening to him? He searched her eyes, knowing his answers were in there, if only he could figure out how to ask.

"Do you remember what happened?" she asked, her voice soft. "Do you know where you are?"

He looked around the room, struggling to focus. The walls weren't very colorful. There was a small television near the ceiling. He was in a bed. And she was sitting there, next to him. Why couldn't he say that to her?

"Do you know who I am?" she asked. Of course he knew who she was. But what was her name? As if reading him, she asked, "Do you remember my name?"

He opened his mouth, but the sounds wouldn't come. Almost with embarrassment, he cast his eyes down, his fingers brushing over the thin fabric of the bedsheets. But his muscles were weak, he couldn't grasp the fabric between his fingers, and added that to the list of things he was currently unable to do.

"Greg," she urged, her voice wavering. "Tell me my name."

Greg. That was his name, but what was hers? He looked at her again, forced air out of his lungs in a choked breath. He was trying, but he couldn't seem to get it right. His brain was so foggy, everything seemed to be moving at hyper speed and he was stuck in slow motion. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to do this? Why couldn't he remember?

"Please, tell me my name," she said again, biting back tears, and Greg knew this was important. He knew he had to do this. "Please, please, Greg, just tell me my name."

Finally, mercifully, he made a sound. It wasn't her name, not yet, but he was getting there. Her eyes were searching his frantically, her body tense as she waited with bated breath. She needed this, he could feel it. Just give him time, Sara. Just give him time. He'd get there, he promised. He just need time...

"...Sara."

She burst into a nervous laughter, smiling as tears spilled onto her cheeks.

"I knew it was you," she said breathlessly, clumsily wrapping her arms around him as she pulled him into an embrace. She smelled clean and her touch was overzealous but comforting at the same time. It was familiar, she was familiar, and he felt relieved.

"I knew it," she repeated, over and over. "I knew it, I knew it, I knew it..."

* * *

><p>There was that man in the white coat again. This time, Greg understood that he was a doctor, but that didn't mean Greg had to like him and those hard, unforgiving eyes. The doctor pulled the blanket up from the bottom of the bed, exposing Greg's bare feet.<p>

"I'm Dr. Ambrose. I'm going to give you a little exam, okay? Can you push against my hands?" he asked, pressing his hands against the soles of Greg's feet, and Greg tried, but he wasn't very strong. The doctor smiled anyway. "Good. That's very good. Now I'm going to press them into the mattress, and I need you to push your legs up, okay?"

Greg wasn't very good at that either, but once again the doctor smiled.

"Great," he said, and moved to the side of Greg's bed to take his hands. "Now squeeze my hands. Harder. Very good. Push. Pull. All right. Follow my finger."

Greg's eyes followed Dr. Ambrose's finger from left to right, north to south, then close to his nose. He felt very inept, but the doctor kept smiling at him and telling him how great everything was. It seemed insincere, especially when Greg would catch sight of that condescending stare.

"When does he get to leave?" Sara asked eagerly, standing on the other side of Greg's bed. She had hardly left his side since he had awoken from his slumber earlier, and while she kept asking him thousands of questions, he had been unable to figure out how to answer any of them, or what the answers would even be if he could.

"Let's just take it one step at a time, Ms. Sidle," Dr. Ambrose responded curtly, before turning his attention back to Greg. "Do you know what happened to you?"

Slowly, but surely, Greg was going to find the words. He was determined to. He clenched his jaw, knotted his brow, concentrated. Took a few deep breaths, searching for the words in his brain. Searching for a way to say them. He looked at Sara, at the doctor, both of whom were watching him expectantly, and it was incredibly intimidating. But he was going to do this. He could do this. Finally, he was able to spit out something, however garbled it was.

"I drowned," he finally said with conviction.

Both Dr. Ambrose and Sara regarded him with disbelief.

"Greg, you didn't drown," Sara said, sitting down at the edge of his bed and taking his hand. "You were shot."

He looked at her with confusion, sure that wasn't what had happened, and he shook his head. That was ridiculous. Wouldn't he remember something like that? He had been at the bottom of the sea. Nick had been there too. He remembered Nick's eyes watching him, Nick's hands reaching for him, pulling him to shore.

Suddenly, Greg looked at her, swallowing hard. Tried twice, frustrated he couldn't find the words, find a way to say them. She was looking at him so patiently, which was even more infuriating. He wasn't a child, he was a grown man, he should be able to do this.

"Nick," he managed.

Sara shared a look with the doctor. Greg remembered that look. It was the same look Sara had given that other doctor in the emergency room when Greg had asked her to check on Nick in the next room. Had that been Sara, or maybe that had been somebody else? Why couldn't he remember anything clearly? Why was everything such a disorganized mess in his mind?

"Nick isn't here," Dr. Ambrose responded quickly. "You were shot three times, Greg. Once in your chest, once in your leg, and once in your hip. You still have a bullet in your hip, but the other two were removed. You were in pretty bad shape, but you've made a great recovery so far."

Where was Nick, if he wasn't here? Was he at home? Why wouldn't he be visiting? Was he busy? Maybe he was working. Didn't Sara have a job? Greg was almost sure she did, but he couldn't remember. What he did remember was that he most certainly hadn't been shot.

"Nick pulled me out of the water," he said slowly, clumsily, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth.

"Greg, you've been in a coma for four weeks," the doctor said, and Greg's eyes widened. Four weeks? He had missed four weeks of his life? "You're just a little confused, which is normal."

Greg looked at Sara. Her eyes were wet and her lips were tight, and there was that little crease between her eyebrows again. Greg shook his head. The doctor was wrong, and he needed her to understand that.

"Sara," he pleaded, his small voice desperate.

She turned to look out the window, and it made him angry. Why wasn't anyone listening to him? Didn't she care that the doctor was wrong? How could they take care of him if they didn't even know what had happened to him? This was a hospital, for God's sake, shouldn't they be able to tell the difference between drowning and a gunshot?

"Ms. Sidle," Dr. Ambrose asked gently. "Can I please see you in the hallway?"

She smiled tightly at Greg, patting his hand, and it felt patronizing. "I'll be right back."

He watched as they stood in the hallway, sharing harsh whispers. Sara looked angry, waving her arms and shifting her stance with agitation. The doctor appeared calm, his arms crossed over his chest, but Greg could see in his posture that he was tense. What were they talking about? Why couldn't he be included in the conversation? Were they conspiring against him? Why didn't they want him to know he had drowned? And where was Nick? He would have been honest with Greg. Is that why he wasn't here? They didn't want him to be honest?

They entered the room again, and Greg cast his eyes to his blankets, rubbing the thin fabric with his fingertips. Sara sat down in the visitor's chair, crossing her arms over her chest as the doctor resumed speaking.

"Greg, I'm going to ask you some questions now," he said. "Can you tell me what year it is?"

Greg regarded the doctor with irritation, pouting considerably. He didn't care what year it was, and he wasn't going to answer any stupid questions until they told him what happened.

Dr. Ambrose repeated, "Can you tell me what year it is?"

He wanted to tell the doctor to go fuck himself, but it was probably best he couldn't figure out how. Instead, he only offered a defiant glare before returning his gaze to his bedsheets.

"Greg, do you know the year?" Dr. Ambrose asked again. This time, Greg lifted his arm to the small portable table in front of him, pushing the plastic cup of water towards the doctor roughly, knocking it off of the table. It splattered on the doctor's crotch before dropping to the floor, spilling water everywhere at his feet. Oops.

"Greg!" Sara chastened, quickly standing and picking up the upended cup.

The doctor sighed. "All right, I think I'll give you a break and come back later. Ms. Sidle, perhaps we should let Greg rest a while. I'll get a nurse to clean this up."

Dr. Ambrose quickly left, leaving Greg and Sara alone, but Greg didn't want to talk to her either. She was a traitor.

"Greg, I'm going to come back later, okay?" she said, touching his hand with gentle fingers, but he pulled away. She pressed her hand to her mouth, looking away as she bit back tears, and instantly Greg felt guilty, but he was still mad. Maybe if she felt bad, she would tell him the truth. She took a deep and shuddering breath, exhaling sharply before turning her eyes back to him. She smiled sadly. "I'm glad you're back."

Greg watched her leave. Cast his eyes to the window. It was dark, but the lights of the city were sparkling. He closed his eyes, hoping to dream about the bottom of the ocean, hoping to see Nick while he was there, but when he fell asleep, he saw nothing.

* * *

><p>To be continued.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, they made Greg move. First, they removed his catheter, which was awful, but they didn't take the irritating tube out of his nose they had been using to feed him while he was unconscious. Maybe later, he would pretend to accidentally pull it out. Nurses helped him get into a wheelchair, and by helped of course he meant they manhandled him into it while making it seem like he'd done all the work. Congratulated him like he was some kind of idiot.

Which, most of the time, that's what he felt like. His brain was stuck in a fog. He knew what he was supposed to do when he wanted to do something. He knew what he was supposed to say when he wanted to say something. But he couldn't seem to connect his brain to his body. It took an agonizingly obscene amount of time and was excruciatingly frustrating. He would get so angry he wanted to strike something, but it never made him feel better when he did.

So they took him downstairs every day, into a room that resembled a gym but not quite, and stuck him with a bunch of other people that needed rehab, some of whom were in much worse condition than him. Perhaps he should have been grateful he wasn't like them, but maybe he was just too disillusioned to understand that he was, which was a thought that only served to depress him.

His therapist was named Abby, an incredibly beautiful woman that had been blessed with an insurmountable amount of patience. She always seemed so excited to see him even though he didn't think he was much company in his current state. She would encourage him and push him during his exercises, waiting when he became too frustrated to continue, soothing him until he had the will to try again. Sometimes, he would even succeed.

Mentally, his mind seemed to switch between lucidity and delusion. Some days, he was sure he had drowned instead of being shot, and would inform the physician he was stupid for not being able to tell the difference. Once, he thought he was in California. Once, he thought he was in a barn, which wasn't a very sanitary place to keep a recovering patient, and he made sure to voice his opinion on the matter. He would sometimes yell at the doctors and nurses like a belligerent drunk, accusing them of conspiring against him or trying to poison him, throwing bedside items at them until they left, slamming the door behind them. Those were not his finest moments, and he would always apologize profusely to the staff, who thankfully never seemed to take anything personally.

Some days, he understood that he had been shot, and that he had suffered from something called hydrostatic shock, which had caused his coma. The force of the bullet entering his chest had created a balloon effect in his circulatory system, forcing fluid under high pressure through his veins and capillaries and arteries away from the point of impact. This had caused most of the damage to his brain, along with the blow to the back of his head he'd received when he had fallen after getting shot.

Every day, Sara was there. She would come and see him, talk to him while she held his hand. Even on his bad days, she would wait patiently for him to come back, always talking him down from his ledge before he jumped. Sometimes, she would cry, although she always tried to hide it from him. Once, when he had awoken from a long, tranquilizer-induced nap after one of his less than flattering incidents, she was sitting in the visitor's chair and leaning her head against his mattress, crying unabashedly into his bedsheets. He pretended to still be sleeping as he listened to her choked sobs, wishing he could comfort her. It seemed the least that he could do after everything she had done for him, but he didn't have the nerve.

She informed him shortly after he had awoken that his parents had come to see him when he'd first entered the hospital, but had left after two weeks. She was evasive about the reason why, but he didn't press her. She wanted to call them, and asked several times, but Greg never let her. He was afraid of his mother's reaction. He knew she would never leave his side, that she would cling to him and coddle him, and he didn't want to be treated like a child. He wanted to get better, to push himself as hard as he could, and he knew she would hold him back.

If he were to be honest with himself, he was mostly afraid to call his mother because he knew she would be mad. Greg had designated Nick as his health care surrogate, which meant that Nick would be in charge of all of Greg's medical decisions should he be unable to make them himself. If something happened to both Nick and Greg, he had chosen Sara as an alternate, fearing his mother would keep him on this earth by any means possible. To live the rest of his days as a vegetable hooked up to a bunch of machines was something he was definitely not interested in, and he knew his chances of meeting that fate were high if his mother were in charge. Regardless, he knew shutting her out of her only child's final medical decisions was something she would take to heart, and he just didn't think he could deal with that on top of everything else.

Later, he would learn the reason why his parents had left was because they were legally ordered to. They had filed an emergency injunction against Sara, the hospital, and the state of Nevada in an attempt to gain the rights to make Greg's medical decisions and transport him to California. When they had been denied by a judge, shit had hit the fan. At least, that's how Sara put it, but he didn't really want to know the details.

After three weeks of consciousness, Greg's mind had nearly returned to him completely. He hardly had any bad moments, although sometimes he would still catch himself bordering a state of confusion. His heart would race and his breath would catch as he panicked, standing right at the precipice between sanity and delusion. It would only last for a few seconds, but it was still terrifying to think one day he might accidentally step right off of that cliff and fall permanently into the abyss.

He still couldn't really remember the shooting. Sometimes, he would grasp pieces of it at the edges of his mind, but they always seemed like slivers of recollected dreams rather than reality. The doctors told him he might never remember. They said it as if it were a good thing, but Greg would desperately reach for those tendrils of memories, needing to remember. He was missing something important, he just didn't know what it was yet.

He knew Nick had been there, knew Nick had been shot. Knew Nick was no longer in the hospital, because that's what they had told him, but he didn't know where Nick was. He thought he remembered Nick visiting him a few times, but it seemed so fleeting he couldn't be sure if it had been a dream. The times Greg had temporarily drifted into delusion felt like dreams, maybe that's when Nick had come to see him and that's why Greg couldn't really remember.

"Where is Nick?" Greg asked, as Sara changed the channels on the small television in his room.

"Nick's not here," she responded, just like she always did, and her body tensed, just like it always did when he asked about their friend. And he would always accept that answer, because he was too afraid to press the issue further. Knowing that Nick was not there – but that he was _somewhere_ – had been comforting, especially on those days that Greg drifted so far into insanity he felt as if he would stay there forever. It was the only reason he ever returned, that gentle caress of fingers brushing against his, leading him back from the brink.

"Where is he?" Greg asked, more firmly this time.

"He's...resting," Sara said, her eyes focusing pointedly on the television.

"Where?" he pressed, determined, but there was an unmistakeable tremor in his voice. "Where is he, Sara? Please, just tell me where he is."

She looked at him, and he knew.

Nick was dead. His Nick, who would make him breakfast at six at night because Greg wanted to eat pancakes for dinner but he didn't know how to cook. His Nick, who would walk the dog in the morning when Greg was too lazy to get up on their day off even though Greg was the one who had wanted the dog in the first place. His Nick, who would leave a post-it note with a sweet or filthy quote from some famous piece of literature Greg never recognized written on it in random places of the house for Greg to find later in a delightful surprise, although romantic gestures really weren't Greg's thing.

His Nick. Dead.

He heard the wretched sounds of heaving sobs before he realized it was him. Felt arms around him, pulling him close, and he clung to Sara desperately. He pleaded with her to please tell him it wasn't true. Please just tell him Nick wasn't dead. Please, please, Sara, please. But she only cried, apologizing over and over again. She was sorry. She was so, so sorry.

"I want to see him," Greg cried, his voice muffled by her shirt. "Can I see him?"

She paused abruptly, leaning back to look at him with red and puffy eyes. "You can't," she whispered sadly. "His parents took him to back Texas. They had his funeral over a month ago."

No. This wasn't happening. He didn't even get to see him one last time? He didn't even get to say goodbye?

"I can't do this," Greg suddenly said. "I can't. I can't do this."

"Greg – "

"I can't," he repeated, again and again and again. "I can't, I can't, I can't..."

His mind was spinning. He felt himself once again balancing precariously on that precipice between sanity and madness, but he didn't want to be in a reality where Nick was dead. He screamed at Sara, pushing her away with such force she nearly fell. Pulled his IV and arterial lines, spraying blood into the air. Monitors began blaring as he ripped cords out of the machine in the wall, disconnecting his blood pressure cuff and heart monitor.

"Greg, please calm down," Sara urged, holding her hands out to him in a pleading gesture as he got out of bed. "You're going to hurt yourself."

Two nurses swiftly entered, unprepared for the chaos. Greg grabbed the small, portable table, flinging it across the room at them. One of the nurses barely dodged being hit, and she quickly left, calling down the hallway and returning shortly with three men.

"Greg, you have to calm down," Sara said frantically, but he had already lost to the madness. "Just lay back down and we can talk about this.

"Fuck you!" he yelled, his voice hoarse as he grabbed an arrangement of flowers from his nightstand and threw it at one of the men coming towards him. The clay pot shattered against the wall loudly, sending dirt and flowers everywhere. "Get the fuck away from me! Don't fucking touch me!"

They flanked him from all sides, forcefully grabbing him and pushing him back into bed. A nurse quickly injected him with sedatives as the other nurse placed him in hard restraints. They replaced his lines and reconnected his monitors, ignoring him with patient stoicism as he screamed and cursed and flailed against his restraints. Sara sat down in the visitor's chair beside him, crying into her hands as she once again waited for him to come back.

* * *

><p>Eventually, Greg did return. Eyes half-closed, sedated, he lay in his hospital bed, in restraints, feeling incredibly guilty for his epic temper tantrum. He wasn't sure just how many more apologies he would have to offer the staff before the end of his stay, but he was sure he would be sending lots of coffee and donuts following his departure.<p>

Anger now dissipated, all Greg was left with was a deep sadness that he was sure would never leave him. Nick was dead. He kept repeating it to himself over and over again, but he couldn't grasp the concept of living without him. How was he supposed to do that? What was he supposed to do without his other half? Who would walk the dog every day? Did Nick expect Greg to do that all by himself now? He really expected him to get up that early on his day off so the dog could go outside for a little while? It was inconceivable. How could Nick leave him to do that all by himself?

"Can I come in?" Sara timidly called from the doorway, holding two cups of coffee. She had left for a little while, and they both looked considerably more composed upon her return. Although Greg was pretty sure his placidity had more to do with sedatives than self-restraint.

"Yeah," he responded hastily. "I'm really, really sorry I freaked out."

"It's understandable," she said, sitting down at the edge of his bed, her eyes meeting his. There was something in them he couldn't quite read, and he regarded her curiously but didn't say anything. She removed his restraints before handing his coffee to him. "I don't know if you're allowed to drink this. Also, it's from Starbucks. Sorry."

He smiled with amusement. "It's okay. You're the last person I'd consider a corporate fascist, even if you do work for the man."

She returned his smile only briefly, before fidgeting with the plastic lid of her coffee. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she said quietly. "The doctors didn't want me to say anything while you were still confused. They were afraid of what it would do to your...you know. Your mental state. And how it would affect your physical recovery."

"It's okay," he said, nodding into his coffee. He bit his lip, his eyes burning. Wanted to ask but was too afraid. Felt as he did when he first woke up. Knowing what to say but unable to find a way. Finally, in barely a whisper, he managed to say the words. "Is it my fault?"

"Is what your fault?" she asked.

He met her eyes for only a moment, unable to hold her gaze for any longer. His cheeks flushed with shame. "Is it my fault that he's dead? I can't...I can't really remember what happened. Is it my fault?"

"Oh, my God, no," she replied quickly, putting her cup on the table and taking his from him. She placed her hands in his, grasping his fingers tightly. She leaned close to him, trying to get him to meet her eyes, but he couldn't look at her. "No, Greg. You tried to save him."

"But I didn't?"

"No, because you were shot three times," she stated dubiously. "You did everything you could, but Nick's injuries were too severe. He lost too much blood before the ambulance even got there."

"If I wasn't..." he began, his voice hitching in his throat. "What if I wasn't injured? If I did something different could I have saved him? Was there a chance he could still – "

"No," she said, firmly.

"Are you telling me this as a friend or a CSI?"

She smiled, brushing his hair gently behind his ear. "Both. And you need a haircut."

* * *

><p>To be continued.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **You get two chapters today, because I feel like they go hand in hand. Also because I don't have the time or the patience to remember to post on certain days like I'd planned to. Anyway, please leave me some love, and thanks for reading.

* * *

><p>One and a half months after Greg had awoken from his coma, he was finally allowed to leave the hospital. They tried to convince him to go to a rehab facility, but he was adamant about leaving. He could walk, and feed himself, use the bathroom, what else did he really need to do? Sometimes his right arm would still go numb from the nerve damage, but he knew the exercises his therapist Abby had shown him to work the tingling out. Maybe he hobbled a little more than he used to, and sometimes that bullet in his pelvis sent a sharp pain shooting down his leg, but he could manage to get around. He was just tired of constantly being surrounded by people. He just wanted to be alone, although he wasn't sure he wanted to go home.<p>

Home. Their home, Nick and Greg's. It was in Greg's name, but it was most certainly theirs. How would he pass by the desk chair that Nick always draped his jeans over after a long day at work? How was he supposed to eat dinner by himself at the coffee table, when they would always eat together while watching recorded shows on their television? And while Nick may have had his own bedroom to keep up appearances, with his own closet and his own bathroom full of all of his things, they always slept in Greg's bed. How was he going to sleep in that bed, alone? When there was supposed to be someone else beside him, snoring obnoxiously until Greg would get up and go into Nick's room just to get some damn sleep?

Sara brought him some clothes. He went into the bathroom to change as if everyone in this place hadn't already seen him naked. Dressed slower than intended, ran some water through his hair, splashed some on his face. Gripped the sink tightly, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. Looked the same, knew he wasn't. Exited the bathroom and stepped back into his hospital room for the last time, about to leave when a nurse handed him a small plastic bag.

"These are the things you came in with," she said, leaving hastily.

He moved to his bed, upending the bag and spilling the contents onto the mattress. His wallet. His keys. His broken cell phone, although someone had had the decency to at least attempt to clean the blood off of it. He crumpled the bag in his hands, but felt something else inside of it. Reached inside, his fingers finding cool metal.

His breath caught in his throat. Of course. How could he forget this?

He pulled out a silver necklace, the ring attached to it following. Gripped the ring in his hand tightly, closing his eyes and biting back tears. Remembered the day Nick gave it to him as they sat in the backyard, a fire burning in the pit Nick had built with brick and cement. It had been their three year anniversary. Nick had grilled some ribeye steaks. They'd eaten outside and drank wine, talking and laughing while listening to Al Green. Nick had knelt down on one knee beside him to drop more wood into the fire, turned to him with a small box, still kneeling. So sly. Such a fucking romantic.

_Damn_.

"Greg?" he heard from the doorway. Sara, coming to retrieve him. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat, thrusting the ring into his pocket. "Yeah. I'm ready."

He said that, but it certainly wasn't true.

* * *

><p>Sara drove him to his home, talking nervously the entire way. Greg never responded, but enough words spilled clumsily out of her for the both of them. He just couldn't concentrate on the conversation. His stomach was in knots. He bounced his knees, chewed his lip, rubbed the ring in his pocket with anxious fingers. The closer they got, the stronger became his urge to vomit, but he was sure Sara wouldn't appreciate it if he threw up all over the inside of her car. Again. The first time occurring when she'd gotten into a fight with Grissom and had asked him to join her in a night of drinking.<p>

She pulled into his driveway, killed the engine. Nick's truck wasn't there, just Greg's car. He knotted his brow, his fingers wrapped around the door handle, but he couldn't bring himself to open it. There was a sudden hand on his shoulder, startling him.

"His parents came and took all of his things."

The words hit him harder than the bullets that had torn through his body. They echoed in his head, and he was unable to hide his panic as he looked at her, shocked.

"Who let them in?" he nearly yelled.

She couldn't look at him, and he knew the answer. Abruptly, he pushed the door open and burst out of the car like a rocket, running to his front door, stumbling as his left leg locked up painfully. He could barely hear Sara calling after him as he fumbled with his keys, unlocking his door with shaky hands. Loudly, the door slammed into the wall as he opened it and stepped into his living room.

There were no jeans strewn over the desk chair. No boots by the front door. But everything else looked the same. He crossed the room quickly, limping as his hip screamed in a hot, searing pain. Traversed the hallway to the second bedroom on the right. Pushed the door open and –

It was empty. No furniture. No clothes. No toiletries. Just an empty fucking space surrounded by light blue walls.

Fuck. Fuck.

"_Fuck!"_ he screamed, pressing his fingers into his eyes. They had taken all of his things, every last one of them. Back to Texas, just like they'd done with Nick. What about the ring? Where was Nick's ring? He flung himself into action, moving into his own room and pulling open drawers with a frenzy. Searching his dresser, nightstands, closet. Quickly, he moved back down the hall, into the bathroom. Tore that apart too. Nothing. Searched the kitchen, the living room. Caught sight of Sara standing in the doorway, watching him with wide eyes. Maybe it was in the desk, he considered. What about the entertainment system?

Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

He was suddenly aware of the fact that something else was missing.

"Where is Daisy?" he asked, his voice even, his heart hammering in his chest.

"Nick's dog?"

He felt as if he'd been punched right in the gut. Nick's dog. Of course, because that's what they'd told everyone, that it was Nick's dog. Which meant –

"They took her too, didn't they?" he asked, sitting down heavily on the couch that was no longer theirs but just his. Sara sat down beside him, close but not close enough to touch him. She seemed hesitant, wary.

"Yeah, they did."

He put his head in his hands, screwing his eyes closed. "I asked for this."

"What?" she asked, placing a tentative hand on his back.

"I asked for this," he repeated, standing from the couch and pacing the living room. He rubbed his aching thigh, ignoring the pain. He deserved it anyway. "I asked for this, Sara. I sat in that fucking hospital and wondered who was going to take that fucking dog out now that Nick wasn't here. Because even though I was the one that wanted that dog, he would be the one to get up and take her outside and take her for a walk and run her around in the dog park. He's the one that would discipline her and yell at her when she ate something or shit on the carpet. He taught her how to sit and roll over, he even taught her bang bang."

Sara watched him with bewilderment, her eyes wide, mouth agape. "What...what is bang bang?"

"He'd shoot her and say _'bang bang'_ and she would lay down dead," Greg replied, pointing to the floor with his fingers, his thumbs cocking like triggers. He laughed hysterically. "He loved showing everybody that trick. Women fucking loved that trick, do you know that?"

He looked at her expectantly. She shook her head, quickly responding, "No. No, I didn't know that."

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "You want to see how fast a woman's panties can fall off, just smile and talk in a southern accent and show them bang bang at the dog park. They'd laugh and twirl their hair around their finger and their panties would just fall right off, and damn it if he didn't love the attention, that fucking flirt."

"But I'll tell you what, Sara," he continued. "That dog fucking loved me. She would sleep with me in my bed and lay on the couch with me when we watched TV even though Nick hated it when she was on the couch. She respected him, but she _loved_ me."

He stopped pacing. Leaned against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. Cried messy, ugly cries, his chest heaving, nose running. Felt a warm and comforting embrace, leaned into it and gripped Sara tightly. Held on to her like a sailor lost at sea clutched a buoy. But, God, did he want to let go. Maybe if he did, he could join Nick at the bottom of the sea.

After quite a few minutes of crying, he managed to calm down. Took shuddering, deep breaths and brought himself back, remembering what Abby had taught him when he felt himself drifting too far. Just breathe. _When you start to feel overwhelmed, just take a deep breath, Greg. Everything is better after a deep breath._

"Sara," he breathed, his voice hoarse. "I remember his eyes."

She didn't respond, just kept holding him tight.

"Do you think..." he began, but he could hardly say the rest. "I'm afraid he thinks he was alone."

"What do you mean?" she asked, pulling away to look him in the eye.

"I remember his eyes," he repeated, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. "They were...he was there, but he wasn't there. I'm afraid he didn't know I was there. I'm afraid he thinks he died alone."

He watched tears spill onto Sara's cheeks, watched her try to find the words just as he had done so many times in the past month.

"Greg, I'm sure he knew you were there," she whispered quietly. "I'm sure he heard what you said."

He sat back against the wall, wondering what she meant but he wasn't sure how to ask. She sat beside him briefly, before standing and moving to the kitchen. Returned moments later with two cold beers and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. She unscrewed the top of the whiskey, handing him the open bottle.

"Thanks," he said, taking a swig, wincing as the harsh liquor passed over his tongue. He handed the bottle back to her, trading it for a beer. "Where did you get this?"

She sat back down next to him, taking a sip before sighing heavily. "I've...kind of...been staying here."

He regarded her suspiciously. "Why?"

"I don't really have a place right now."

"Where's Grissom?"

She suddenly seemed uncomfortable. "We're...not really together anymore."

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"We're divorcing."

He frowned. "Did I know that?"

"Yeah."

"Sorry," he said, peeling the label off of his beer bottle. "I don't know if you know I've been having some trouble with my memory."

"I might've heard something about that," she said, smiling before taking another sip of whiskey. She pursed her lips several times, seemed to be gearing up to say something momentous, but he wasn't sure what. He was too afraid to ask, so instead, he allowed her to struggle. Finally, she blurted out, "I know you and Nick were more than just friends."

He looked at her with surprise. "You do?"

She nodded. "I heard the 911 call. I wasn't supposed to, I shouldn't have, but I listened to it. I heard what you said."

He bit his lip. Looked at her with a sideways glance. "What did I say?"

"You don't remember?"

He shook his head. Waited with bated breath.

"You told the girl on the phone to tell Nick that you loved him, in case you didn't make it."

"Maybe I love him like a brother," Greg offered. Sara only responded with an unamused glare.

"Greg, I might be oblivious to most things," she said, "but you did not say it like that. How long were you together?"

"Four years."

She let out a low whistle. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"He didn't want anyone to know," Greg admitted. "His parents knew...about him. About us. But they...we didn't talk about it. He just...he didn't want anyone at work to know, he was afraid of what it would do to his career."

"Did it bother you? Not telling anyone?"

"Not really," he replied, shrugging. "We'd always been friends, so it wasn't like it was suspicious that we hung out. We'd still get drinks, go to dinner, movies, whatever. Nothing really changed after we got together." He smiled ruefully. "Our nights just started ending differently."

"Why didn't you tell _me_?" she asked, quietly. "You should've said something, at least in the hospital."

"I wanted to, trust me," he said, shaking his head. He took another swig of whiskey. "I just...it didn't seem right to betray him just because he isn't here anymore."

He reached into his pocket, pulling out the ring attached to a necklace. Dangled it from his fingers, taking the ring off and placing it on the ring finger of his left hand. Heard Sara's quiet gasp of surprise.

"He gave this to me one year ago," Greg stated, his voice thick. "He was wearing his when...I don't know what happened to it. I think his parents took it, along with everything else. I doubt they buried him with it, but I'm sure they knew it was from me."

"Greg, I'm so sorry," she stated quietly. "And I'm sorry I let them in here. At the time, I had no idea."

"It's okay," he said, and raised his beer bottle to her, almost like a peace offering. She touched hers to his, the glasses clinking together in a morbid toast. Shared a glance, shared a few drinks, until they fell asleep together on the couch in drunken misery.

* * *

><p>To be continued.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

It was during the month that followed that Greg fell into a deep and dark depression. He would stay in his bedroom all day, thick curtains drawn, only leaving on those rare occasions he wanted to eat something. He'd found an old, maroon Texas A&M blanket in his closet that Nick's parents hadn't managed to take. Went to the drugstore and bought the cologne Nick used to wear. Sprayed it on the soft fabric and curled up with it in bed, burying his face into it and inhaling the scent of his dead husband. And he'd cry inconsolably until he'd fall asleep.

Some days, on his darkest days, he considered killing himself. He would lay curled around that blanket and tell Nick he didn't want to do this alone. He didn't know how to do this alone. That if he couldn't live with Nick, he certainly wasn't going to continue living without him. He had even gone so far as to make sure Sara would inherit the million dollars Nick's life insurance policy had paid out to him, and the house too. He just couldn't seem to work up the courage to go through with it. At least not yet. But there was a gun in the safe beside Greg's bed, and sometimes he would open the safe just to make sure it was still there. Just in case.

Finally, one day, Sara opened the bedroom door, forcefully slamming it into the wall with a loud bang. Greg startled as he sat up in bed, his heart pounding in his chest.

"What is it?" he asked breathlessly. "What's wrong?"

"I'll tell you what's wrong," she said, opening the curtains with such vigor she pulled one off of the window. She threw it to the floor with disinterest, knocking several items off of his dresser. "You're not doing this anymore."

She turned to him, pulling the covers off of him and grabbing the pillows, tossing two across the room and keeping a third in her hands. She hit him with it roughly just once, standing at the side of his bed and breathing heavily, poised to strike again at any moment. She looked more angry than he'd ever seen her.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he said, holding a hand up in defense.

"I am not going to sit here anymore and watch you do this to yourself," she declared. "Get out of bed."

"Sara, I'm fine," he responded, although he knew probably as much as she did that that certainly wasn't true. "I'm just...trying to get through this."

"You aren't going to do it like this," she said, throwing the pillow and trading it for the Texas A&M blanket. "You aren't going to get over him by burying yourself in this blanket every day in this dark fucking room. You need to get out of this room and back to your normal life."

"My normal life?" he spat dubiously. "What normal life? Walking my fucking dog that I don't have? Or are you talking about going back to the crime lab, where Nick worked? Sitting in that office we shared? Or eating dinner by myself every night? I don't know how to fucking cook, Sara! How the fuck am I supposed to survive without Nick making me something to eat? I don't even know what to buy at the store for the shit that he used to make. And who's going to carry in all the heavy groceries? I never used to do that! You expect me to do that, too?"

He suddenly inhaled sharply, burying his face in his hands, pressing his fingers into his eyes.

"Oh, my God, Sara," he cried. "I don't know how to do anything without him. I don't know what it's going to feel like. I just want to stay in here, then I won't have to know. Not if I stay in here, Sara. Please, I can't do this. I don't know how to do this."

He felt the bed dip as she sat down beside him, pulling him into her arms, and she rocked him steadily as he cried into her shirt. She waited until he calmed down, running gentle fingers through his hair and just sitting with him for a moment in silence.

"Greg," she said quietly. "There isn't anything I can say that will make you feel better, but I'm right here with you, okay?"

"That does actually make me feel better," he admitted.

"Good. Now come on," she said, nudging him. "I don't know how to cook either, and I'm sure that comes as a surprise to you. But we're scientists, it can't be that hard. So let's figure it out together. It'll give Nick something to laugh about, wherever he is."

And Greg laughed for the first time in three months.

* * *

><p>Slowly, Greg was learning how to live without Nick. Thankfully, he wasn't really alone. Sara had taken up residence in his third bedroom while he had been hospitalized, and she still had yet to leave. He would be glad if she never did, and sometimes even amused himself imaging them growing old together like two spinsters. The image seemed to fit.<p>

He learned how to do the things that Nick had previously been in charge of. Learned how to work the lawnmower and use the hedger to tame stubborn weeds in the front yard. Remembered to take his car to get the oil changed without having to be reminded a hundred times, although he was ashamed to admit it was a least two thousand miles overdue. He even fixed the garbage disposal after watching a how-to video. Silently, he regretted never truly appreciating Nick for all of the things he used to do for their home. All the things he used to do for Greg.

He was putting away some laundry (which he'd always been in charge of) when he opened his dresser drawer to shove socks inside, his fingers brushing against a slip of paper. Felt his breath catch, his eyes burn. He knew what it was. A familiar event he had experienced thousands of time before, but not in nearly four months time. Clutched the post-it note between slender fingers and closed his eyes, steeling himself before looking at it.

_How do you spell love? You don't spell it, you feel it._

Laughter exploded from Greg. He stood in his bedroom, unable to stop, crying at the same time. Soon heard Sara in the doorway, knocking timidly.

"Are you okay?"

"Winnie the Pooh," he said, holding up the note.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words came. Then: "What?"

"Nick would leave me these love notes," he said, shaking his head. "And I always used to complain he'd write some quote from literature that only nerds like him and Grissom would know. This is fucking Winnie the Pooh. Winnie the Pooh!"

She shook her head in amusement as she left the room, calling down the hall, "Dinner's almost ready."

Together, both Greg and Sara were learning how to cook. They would look up recipes on the internet and follow them precisely, like the good scientists they were. They started with easy dishes, like baked chicken and potatoes. Moved on to fish and rice. Breaded pork chops. They even baked a whole chicken in the oven, which had smoked up the entire house but came out delicious. Neither of them were brave enough to try barbecuing, afraid they would poison themselves with salmonella or infect themselves with some kind of parasite from undercooked meat, but maybe one day they would make an attempt. Although it felt inherently wrong to touch Nick's grill, which Greg had been specifically instructed not to do several times by his late husband.

The day they finally ventured into the backyard with a plate of marinated steaks was the day Greg told Sara he was going to visit Nick.

"Why?" she asked, as she sat in one of the Adirondack chairs, a beer dangling from her fingertips.

"I don't know," he replied. "I guess it just doesn't feel real yet. It just feels like he's not here. Like he's just going to walk through the door one day. Maybe if I see him, it'll be more real. I don't know. Maybe I just never got to say goodbye. Maybe if I go, I'll feel like I can say goodbye. Maybe it's a whole bunch of things."

"Are you going to fly there?"

"No. I think I want to drive. It'll take me about two days," he replied, anxiously watching the grill and checking his watch. "If I fuck this up we have two more steaks, right?"

"Yes," she stated. "Are you going to see his parents?"

Greg pulled a face. "Why would I do that?"

"I don't know," she said, shrugging. "You said they knew about you."

He offered her a hollow laugh. "They don't want to see me."

"They told you that?"

"No. But I know they think I lead their son into a life of sin."

"I'm pretty sure Nick has a mind of his own," Sara said, rolling her eyes.

"It's easier to blame me, I guess, than to think your only son is a faggot by choice," he said bitterly, and then shook his head. "He's the youngest out of seven, all sisters. As if he even had a chance."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"No," he said, turning the steaks over, pleased at the sight of perfect grill marks. "I think I want to go alone, if that's okay."

"Are you sure you're ready?" she inquired hesitantly.

"I think so."

There was a brief pause. Then, quietly, Sara asked, "Are you going to come back?"

"What?" he asked, turning to face her with confusion.

"I mean..." She shifted in her seat uncomfortably, her eyes cast to the ground. "I got the paperwork in the mail. That you added me as the beneficiary to the life insurance payout you got, and to the house. If you aren't coming back, I guess I'd just like to be prepared. Also, if it's okay, I'd like the entertainment system."

"No, Sara," he began, shaking his head, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. He knelt down in front of her, forcing her to look at him. "I can't say I haven't thought about it, but I..." _I was too much of a coward to do it. _"I don't think about it anymore. I'm coming back, I promise."

"Good," she said, blinking back tears. "Because I really don't want to have to bury the only friend I have left."

He pulled her into an embrace and hugged her tightly, his turn to finally comfort her and return the favor. And while Greg was slowly learning to live without Nick, and Sara was slowly learning to live without Grissom (albeit in a different way), he was sure they didn't want to have to learn how to live without each other.

"Greg."

"Yeah?"

"The steaks are burning."

"Shit!" he yelled, jumping to the grill. Their dinner was fully engulfed in flames, charred black, with all the tenderness of a brick. "Damn it."

"I'll get the other ones," Sara said, heading into the house as he dejectedly flicked the steaks into the grass. "If you screw those up, we're ordering takeout."

* * *

><p>To be continued.<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **If I could cast Nick's parents, they would be played by James Brolin and Sela Ward. James Brolin is an older and quite possibly sexier version of Nick. Just sayin'. Google it if you don't believe me. I know Sela Ward is kind of young, but whatever.

* * *

><p>Two days later, Greg was well on his way to Dallas, Texas. He drummed the wheel with his fingers as he listened to country music, because that's what Nick would have forced them to listen to had he been there. Enjoyed the scenery as he passed Flagstaff, Arizona. Felt as if he would break his promise to Sara and actually kill himself if he kept listening to country as he drove through Gallup, New Mexico, and finally put on the internet radio from his cell phone. Continued past Albuquerque, determined to get to Amarillo, Texas, before finding a motel. He wasn't sure why it was so important, but it would only be a little over five more hours from Amarillo to Dallas, and he could get to Nick by the evening tomorrow.<p>

Twelve hours after he'd left Las Vegas, Greg finally made it into Texas, a green road sign with the state flag on it greeting him as he arrived.

_Welcome to Texas. Drive Friendly – The Texas Way._

Greg laughed. If Texas could only see how Nick drove, he was sure they would reconsider the sign.

Once in Amarillo, Greg pulled into a small motel. Felt his hip and arm screaming at him as he got out of his car, throbbing from sitting in the same position for too long. Checked in, grabbed his room key and stepped inside the small space. Immediately collapsed on the bed without taking off his clothes, deciding to worry about eating when he woke up. He'd gotten a snack at a gas station only a couple hours ago, which was enough to abate his hunger for now. So he laid there, alone, in the very early hours of the morning, wishing Nick was there. But somehow knowing they were in the same state was comforting enough to quickly lull Greg into sleep.

* * *

><p>Five hours and twenty-eight minutes after leaving Amarillo, Greg found himself in Dallas, sitting in his parked car and gripping the steering wheel while staring straight ahead. He was on a small, paved road in a large cemetery, his heart pounding in his ears, his breath stuck in his chest. To his left, somewhere down this row of graves, was Nick. He would be able to see if he could just work up the nerve to get out of his fucking car.<p>

He knew that once he saw those letters etched in stone that this would all be real. No more imagining that Nick was not dead, just somewhere else besides home. No more expecting Nick to walk through the door. It would be final. This would be it. No turning back from here. While part of him was ready, part of him wasn't. But he knew he had to do this. He knew he had to say goodbye.

Finally, twenty minutes after arriving, he pushed the car door open and stepped outside.

Slowly, cautiously, he crossed the graves until he found the one he was looking for. He stood in front of it, much more overwhelmed than he thought he would be, although if he were to be honest he wasn't really sure how he would feel once he got here. Stepped closer to the tombstone, kneeling down before it and reaching out to run his fingers over the inscription. _Nicholas Parker Stokes. February 9, 1971 – July 7, 2013. _Leaned his forehead against the cool stone and closed his eyes tightly.

"Nick," he whispered. "Nick, I have so much to tell you."

Hot tears spilled into the grass as he knelt there, words spilling out just as quickly. He told Nick about Sara, that she and Grissom had split up, although he was sure Nick already knew that. Told him they were learning to cook together, if he could believe it. They used his grill sometimes, if that was okay, but they always cleaned it when they were finished. Well, mostly always. Told Nick he learned how to work the lawnmower and the hedger, even if he had to buy a new hedger because he didn't know he was supposed to put oil in it too. Told him he fixed the garbage disposal, although he had to watch a video to see how while Nick would've just figured it out.

"You would be so proud of me," he said. "I still don't know what days to take out the garbage, though. You know I could never remember that. That's why I need you. Who's going to remember to take out the garbage? Fuck, Nick. It wasn't supposed to be like this. You weren't supposed to leave me here. How could you leave me here? We weren't supposed to end like this, not yet. Not yet, Nick. I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready. I'm not ready, Nick, I'm not ready. I miss you so much. I don't know what to do. Please, just tell me what to do."

He cried messily into the gravestone, unable to control himself, even with all those deep breaths Abby had taught him. He just wanted to be buried in the ground there with him, would give anything to just be with him, regardless of what he'd promised Sara.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of white beside him, jumping on him and stepping all over him. He startled, falling back into the grass, throwing his hands up in self-defense. Confused until he felt a cold nose on his cheek, an eager tongue licking all over his face.

"Daisy?" he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around her. "Daisy! Daisy! How are you, girl? Oh, Daisy, I never thought I'd see you again! Where did you come from? What – "

_"Daisy, heel!"_ he heard, and stood quickly, spinning around to see an older man standing a few yards away. A man he'd only seen in pictures, but even if he hadn't he would still have recognized those strong features. He was as imposing and intimidating as Nick had described, and Daisy quickly retreated. The man regarded Greg suspiciously.

"Are you Greg?" he asked, after a brief moment.

"Yes," he replied, hastily wiping tears and snot and dog slobber from his face.

"That's my son's grave you're standing on."

"Sorry," he quickly offered, stepping aside. Stood there, like an idiot, but he didn't know what to do or what to say. This was the last thing he ever expected, and he was absolutely terrified.

"My wife's been wanting to talk to you," the Honorable Bill Stokes said, and offered nothing more.

"Okay..." Greg said, shifting uneasily under the other man's gaze.

Bill turned, walking away from him and towards his truck. "Dinner's at seven."

Greg opened his mouth, but his breath had been stolen from him. His mind was racing and blank at the same time. He felt as bewildered as he had when he'd first come out of his coma, and briefly wondered if he was stuck in a moment of delusion.

"Wait!" he said, finally able to spit something out, but when Bill turned to look at him, he had no idea what to say. "What...I mean...where do you live?"

Bill dismissively called the address over his shoulder before pulling open the truck door, allowing Daisy to enter before he followed. And then he was gone.

Greg's breath exploded from him. He looked at Nick's grave, dubious. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

* * *

><p>A little before seven o'clock in the evening, Greg was once again trying to will himself to get out of his car. Took deep and even breaths, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. He felt as if he were going to throw up. Or have a heart attack. Or both. He was sweating in the heat of his car, the engine cut off some time ago, and briefly panicked as he wondered if he would look like a sweaty, pale mess or smell like a gym when he entered the house. Then panicked more as he thought about entering that house. The same house where Nick's parents lived.<p>

What were their intentions? Did they want to tell them how much they hated him? How disappointed they were in him for ruining their son's chances of getting into Heaven? Or robbing them of grandchildren? What if this were some kind of _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ situation?

"Get out of the fucking car," he said to himself, wondering how a grown man could be so scared to just go inside of a damn house. He was a man, and he could handle himself like one, although there was something about Bill Stokes that made him feel like a child. No wonder Nick had never had to the nerve to tell his father exactly where to go.

Greg hesitantly exited his vehicle, following the path to the front door. The old two story home stood at the end of a long and winding road, nestled in the center of several acres of land. Greg had seen some horses, chickens, a couple cows, and had briefly encountered an errant goat that blocked his car for some time before getting out of the way, seemingly unfazed by Greg's incessant honking.

Standing before the front door, Greg took a few deep breaths. Unclenched one fist to reach for the doorbell. Jerked his hand back once, twice. Shook the nervousness out of his hand, took more deep breaths. Took too many and suddenly felt dizzy. Fucking Jesus Christ, get it together, Greg. Just ring the fucking doorbell.

Determined, he reached forward to jab the doorbell but the door was pulled hastily open before he could. A woman stood there, dark hair and fair skin. And while her husband's unmistakable resemblance to Nick may have never allowed him to deny his son, Jillian shared Nick's eyes, and Greg was unable to look away from them. He had always remembered Nick's half-closed eyes as he lay there dying on the floor of an abandoned house in the projects, but suddenly and unexpectedly he had a flash of a different image: brown eyes illuminated with a fiery intensity, smiling at him and calling him to shore. He wasn't sure where the vision came from, but he remembered it with such a sharp clarity it made him gasp.

He realized that he was staring, but so was she. Searching his face for something, he wasn't sure what. He managed to close his gaping mouth and swallowed hard, his heart racing. Waiting for one of them to say or do anything.

She acted first, throwing her arms around his shoulders and pulling him into an embrace, hugging him so tightly his breath escaped him. It was unexpected, and he didn't know how to respond, but before he had a chance to, she was stepping away from him, wiping her hands on a dishtowel and casting her eyes to the floor with what appeared to be embarrassment.

"Greg," she said, breathlessly. "Bill told me you were coming. Please, come inside. Dinner's almost ready."

He stepped into the house, entering a hallway that had several doorways attached to it. Immediately, Daisy came bounding down the hallway, and he knelt down to greet her, his heart aching at the sight of his old friend.

"Hey, girl," he said, scratching her behind her ears. She jumped at his face, licking him all over. "Easy, easy."

To his left was a living room. Bill Stokes sat in one of the leather armchairs with a rock glass half full of whiskey, the bottle sitting on the table beside it. He was watching a football game. Didn't even regard Greg in the slightest. Jillian indicated the small room, shepherding him inside and shooing Daisy away.

"Just have a seat, and I'll call you when it's ready," she said, leading him to the couch. "I'll get you something to drink. Do you like beer?"

"Yes," he said, his voice several octaves higher than it usually was. He cleared his throat, catching Bill's sideways glance out of the corner of his eye. "Yes, please."

"Good, I'll be right back," she said, and then she was gone. She returned in moments, pressing a cold beer into Greg's hand. "Here you go, sweetie."

"Thanks," Greg said, and then she disappeared once more, and he was alone with Nick's father. In the same room. Just the two of them. Greg sat rigidly on the couch, gripping the bottle so hard he feared it would break in his hand. Heavy silence stretched between the two men, and Greg felt so tense he swore if anyone touched him he would unwind with the intensity of a spinning top.

"Who's your team?" Bill suddenly asked, signaling the game on television.

"I, uh...I don't follow college football," Greg replied slowly, hoping he didn't sound as timid as he thought he did.

"Okay," Bill said. "What about professional?"

"I don't actually follow professional football either," he said, every word stumbling out of his mouth clumsily.

"What sport do you follow?" he asked.

"I don't," he responded, and could see the look of dissatisfaction in the older man's face. He desperately wanted to say anything that would ease the tension in the room, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. "I play softball for the league at work."

Why the fuck did he just say that? Immediately, he regretted the words as Bill grunted pensively. Greg was going to need much more beer than this.

* * *

><p>Dinner was just as awkward. The three of them sat at the table in the kitchen, silently eating what Greg amounted to the best pot roast he'd ever tasted in his life, and it was no wonder Nick had been such a great cook if this was the woman that had taught him.<p>

"So you worked with Nick?" Jillian asked, the interruption in silence startling Greg.

He regarded her dubiously. She said it as if he were just some kind of acquaintance that had stopped by to offer his condolences. Yes, they had worked together. They'd also lived together and slept together and wore matching rings. He didn't say that, of course, instead staring intently into his mashed potatoes, pushing them around with his fork.

"Yeah," he finally replied.

"How long did you know him?"

"Maybe fifteen years," he said, after pausing to think about it, and the answer even took him by surprise. "Wow. Yeah, I knew him for fifteen years."

"How long were you together?" she blurted out, and Bill immediately coughed. She must have realized what she said, shifting in her seat and retreating uncomfortably. "In the field, I mean. You worked together in the field, right? But not for that long? I think he told me you used to do something more with chemistry?"

"DNA," he clarified. "I used to work in the DNA lab, and then I started working in the field. We worked together in the field for maybe eight years, although I haven't worked in a few months."

"Time flies, I guess," Jillian said, smiling pleasantly, but it was strained. "Were you and Nick always friends?"

"No, we – " he began, and abruptly Bill stood from the table, his chair scraping against the floor loudly.

"I'm going upstairs," he said, his eyes hard as he stared at his wife. He didn't even look at Greg as he left the kitchen, leaving a plate of barely touched food behind.

Greg exhaled sharply, almost relieved the intimidating judge was gone. Still, he was a tense bundle of nerves, hardly able to believe he was sitting in Nick's parents house. Nick's parents, who hated him and everything that he stood for. He glanced up at the heavens, silently asking Nick what the hell he was doing here. What was the reason for all of this?

A gentle hand touched his forearm.

"Don't mind him," Jillian said, and she smiled disingenuously. "I try not to."

"It's okay," Greg said quietly.

"Bill and I made sure Nick knew we didn't agree with his...lifestyle," she stated hesitantly, her eyes cast to the table. "The problem with that is...when you tell someone you disagree with how they live their life, they tend not to tell you about it."

Her expression changed. Her eyes met his, intense with raw emotion. Pain. Anguish. Regret. She squeezed his arm hard, blinking back tears.

"Greg," she said thickly, silent tears cascading down her delicate cheeks. "I'm afraid I've lost a son that I don't even know."

He felt his own eyes burning, but he was unable to look away.

"I might not know much about Nick," she continued, "but I know you were a big part of his life. Can you please...can you please tell me about my son?"

Greg nodded, but he couldn't find the words. Not yet. Took a long swig of beer, swallowing the cool liquid and depositing the bottle onto the table heavily. Cleared his throat, attempting to keep his composure.

"I don't know where to start," he admitted, his voice hoarse.

"Why don't you just try from the beginning?" she asked, smiling sadly.

And then Greg started talking. For hours, they sat at the table as he told her about their life. Told her about meeting Nick when he was just a nerdy lab rat. How much he admired her son, how badly he wanted to be like him. All of the women swooned over him, all of the men were jealous of his qualities, of being Grissom's favorite. Nick was so handsome, so cool, so charming, so smart. He was a polite and kind southern gentleman. It was easy for Nick to be good, doing the right thing just came to him like second nature.

Then Greg went into the field. Nick encouraged him and protected him while giving him room to spread his wings. Nurtured him and gave him advice. Offered him comfort when he needed it. Warrick, Nick's best friend, slowly withdrew from Nick's life, consumed by his own demons. Slowly, but surely, replaced by Greg. And when Warrick was brutally murdered, the harsh reality of the fragility of life and how quickly it could be taken away hit them both hard.

"How did you...you know...get together?" she asked hesitantly, as she scrubbed dishes in the sink before handing them to Greg to dry. "When did you know?"

He smiled fondly yet sadly. "I always knew. But I was too afraid to tell him."

And then, New Year's Eve, at one of Greg's friend's parties, they were sitting alone in the stairwell drinking liquor and smoking pilfered cigarettes. Everyone else was inside or on the roof of the high rise, waiting for the ball to drop and watching fireworks. The two men had been talking for a long time, about anything and everything, when Greg glanced at his watch and realized it was already past twelve. Nick didn't hesitate to messily kiss Greg on the mouth with drunken courage, and witnessed Greg blush for the first time since they'd known each other.

A year later, they moved in together. Two years after that, Nick gave him the ring Greg was wearing while they sat outside in their backyard. One year after that, Nick was dead. Post-it notes and cooking and fixing things around the house in between. Nick took care of Greg, but he never made Greg feel like less than a man. Greg just wished he would have told Nick how much he appreciated all of those things. The things Nick would do without being asked. The things he would do even when he was asked, without uttering a single complaint. But Greg supposed it would have never been enough.

"I have something for you," Jillian said, handing Greg the last dish to dry as they stood by the kitchen sink. She left hurriedly, and he could hear her rummaging in the hall closet. She returned shortly with a small velvet box, and he immediately knew what it was.

With trembling fingertips, he opened the box to reveal a plain silver ring. Pulled it out of the box, the necklace attached to it swaying gently. Looked at Jillian, swallowing hard.

"Thank you," he said, unable to find any other words.

"It was always yours," she said, smiling. "He was always yours."

* * *

><p>It was nearly midnight before Jillian and Greg had finished conversing in the kitchen. He yawned tiredly at the kitchen table as he absently petted Daisy, who sat on the floor beside him. Jillian was still fussing with the stove, scrubbing the burners with determination. Greg smiled to himself. Nick had also been an anxious cleaner, always turning to the task when upset. They would get into some petty argument and go to bed angry, and Greg would awaken to a sparking kitchen or tidy living room.<p>

"I think I'm going to head out," Greg announced quietly, leaning down so he was nose to nose with Daisy. "I gotta go home, girl."

"No, no, that's nonsense," Jillian said, waving away the thought. "It's too late to drive, you'll fall asleep at the wheel and get into an accident."

"I worked nights for over fifteen years," Greg stated, although the concern amused him. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"You are sleeping here," she declared, grabbing the back of his chair and nearly spilling him out of it. "Get your things from the car and go upstairs. You can leave in the morning, after you rest and shower and eat something."

"Mrs. Stokes, that's not really necessary."

"I don't seem to recall asking your opinion on the matter," she deadpanned, crossing her arms over her chest. Greg opened his mouth to protest, but only a sigh escaped him. It didn't really sound like there was much room for argument. Briefly, Greg wondered if that was her courtroom lawyer voice. Perhaps it was the same voice she used to corral seven children. Maybe both.

"I'll get my stuff," he resigned, and moments later found himself inside of a small spare bedroom on the second floor, lying on a twin bed with Daisy curled up beside him. Jillian had informed him that dogs were not allowed in the bedrooms, which had been devastating to hear. Poor Daisy had been sleeping in the cold hallway on the hard floor for months. It was practically animal abuse. He had waited about ten minutes before opening the door and whispering her name, and the old girl had shot into Greg's bed like a rocket. He didn't realize how much he'd missed her warm, furry body that had always slept beside him, and was now only short one more puzzle piece. He sighed heavily, listening to the cacophony of cicadas as he watched the stars from the window, shining bright in the dark sky.

"Not much room on this bed," Greg said quietly into the sky, and smiled softly. "But I'm sure we would've made it work. We have before. I shouldn't be here alone, meeting your parents. You should be here too. God, I wish you were here."

The first time Nick had met Greg's parents, Nick had been adorably nervous. They had driven to California together, staying at a hotel on the beach for a few days before driving out to Greg's parents' home. Nick, ever the southern gentleman, brought Greg's mother flowers and his father a bottle of wine.

"Relax," Greg had said, gently resting a calming hand on Nick's knee in the car.

"I'm fine," Nick replied, but his death grip on the steering wheel had said otherwise. "I just...don't have the same reception at my parents' house. It's an automatic response."

Greg smiled comfortingly, but his heart ached for Nick. "Don't worry. My parents love you already."

And it was true. They welcomed him with open arms. Greg's father discussed philosophies with Nick by the barbecue as they carefully cooked chicken over hot coals. Greg's mother gushed to a blushing Nick how handsome he was, and how much she just loved the twang in his accent. They all got pleasantly buzzed off of several bottles of expensive wine, sitting by a fire in the backyard and having easy conversation. Greg's father had fallen off of the back porch and into the bushes, his mother had screamed and Greg had laughed until he cried while Nick pulled him up.

It was the early hours of the morning when Nick and Greg had gone upstairs to Greg's old bedroom to sleep. They had dirty, exciting sex, trying to stay quiet as they maneuvered on the twin-sized bed, failing miserably when Nick knocked the hanging shelf off of the wall with a loud bang, giggling uncontrollably like two high school kids trying to score. Laid boneless as they curled against one another once they had finished, sleepy and sated. Greg could suddenly feel Nick trembling behind him.

"What's wrong?" Greg had asked, craning his neck to look at Nick, surprised to see him crying. Well, half-surprised. Nick cried over everything. Once even when he'd seen a commercial on television about a dog and a boy on a farm, although to his credit he'd been pretty drunk at the time. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he replied quickly. "I just...I'll never have this. With my parents."

"This is yours too, you know," Greg offered, but knew it was a lame attempt at comfort. Knew there was nothing he could really say to ease the pain of reality.

"It's not the same."

"I know," Greg conceded. "But maybe one day it'll be close."

Nick may have accepted Greg's parents as a consolation prize, but Greg knew they would never fill the void in Nick's life created by his own parents. Couldn't imagine how it felt to have the ones you loved the most – the ones that were supposed to protect you and fight for you and love you unconditionally – turn their backs on you.

It pained Greg now to imagine how much tonight would've meant to Nick. Invited to dinner, watching football with his father, talking at the kitchen all night with his mother. Even if Bill had not been the most pleasant host, it would've still been a start. It would've been enough.

Greg closed his heavy eyes and sighed, soon dreaming of campfires, red wine, and Nick.

* * *

><p>To be continued.<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

It was dark. There was a loud bang as the bedroom door slammed open, and Greg shot up in bed, his breath exploding from him in short bursts as he was abruptly awoken from his sleep. This was it. Here was Leatherface. At least he had Daisy to protect him. She sat back on her haunches, barking only once before emitting a low growl.

"Greg," a deep and stern voice said, and Daisy quickly retreated. So much for that.

"What?" he asked breathlessly, his heart pounding. He squinted against the light spilling in from the hall to see Bill's form standing in the doorway. "What is it?"

"I need your help with something." It was not a request, but rather a command.

Greg looked at the small clock sitting by his bedside. The red lights read 5:59am.

"Now?" he asked, bewildered.

"Yes. Get dressed and meet me out back."

As Greg felt his heart rate returning to normal, his breathing evening, he came to the stark realization that he was definitely not in _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_. He was officially in _The Twilight Zone_.

* * *

><p>Greg exited the back of the house with trepidation, carefully coming down the steps to see Bill standing beside a large bucket. Jillian had still been asleep, but so was any other sane person at six in the morning on a Saturday. Except Bill, apparently, but the jury was still out on his sanity. Greg quietly approached to stand beside him, the bucket between them, and they stood in silence for a few moments. As Daisy scurried around them anxiously, Greg yawned, waiting for Bill to tell him exactly what he needed help with.<p>

"I need you to take this to the chickens and feed them," Bill said, his eyes fixed on the beginnings of a sunrise peeking over the horizon. "Replace their water, and then I need you to collect the eggs from the coop and bring them back here. Do you think you can do that?"

"Uh, sure," Greg replied, rubbing the nape of his neck. "Where do I put the food? Do the chickens have, like...bowls with their names on it?"

Bill only shoved a pair of work gloves into Greg's chest, his expression unamused as Greg accepted them. Turned to walk back into the house, calling over his shoulder, "When you're done with that why don't you shovel out all the straw and wood chips? There's fresh in the shed beside it. Breakfast will be ready when you're done."

Greg rolled his eyes. Now he could see where Nick had gotten his sense of humor.

* * *

><p>Chickens were the filthiest, most disgusting animals Greg had ever encountered in his life, and they were also the biggest assholes out of the entire food chain; he would never feel guilty about eating another chicken again. Feeding the chickens had been easy enough, just pour the food into their feeders. The real fun started when he tried to collect the eggs from beneath the hens. They flapped their wings at him and pecked at his arms, scratching and biting at him with ferocity until he managed to remove them from their nests. Often times, there wasn't even a fucking egg. Finally, he'd found a large stick and used it to poke the chickens out of their nests, which he wished he would've figured out earlier. He idly wondered what organisms he would find under a microscope while examining the bloody scratches on his arms.<p>

Cleaning out a chicken coop was comparable to some of the worst decomposing bodies Greg had encountered as a CSI. Literally everything was covered in feces. Even places he was sure the chickens couldn't reach had feces on it. He grunted against the weight of hay and wood chips bogged down by chicken shit, pushing it with a shovel into a garbage bin and dragging it to the side of the shed.

After spraying down the hen house with a hose and replacing all of the hay and narrowly stopping Daisy from eating one of the chickens, Greg was surprised to see how much time had passed. He grabbed his bucket of the scarce amount of chicken eggs he'd found, and made his way back to the house with Daisy. Threw his hen-poking stick and watched the old girl chase after it, grinning with pride as she brought it back to him.

"Good girl!" he said, throwing the stick again, ignoring the ache in his shoulder. Maybe, he considered, she was better off on all this acreage rather than cooped up in a house. Although he still wasn't sold on the sleeping-in-the-hallway thing.

"Greg!" Jillian exclaimed, greeting him at the back door. "My husband told me he had you cleaning out our our hen house. Why on earth did you ever agree to that? Give me those eggs, I have a hot breakfast waiting for you."

"Thanks," he said, feeling suddenly embarrassed. Why had he agreed to do that? Maybe because it had been six in the morning when Bill had asked, and he'd still been half-asleep and didn't know what he'd been agreeing to. "I'm just going to wash up."

"I need your help with something else, when you're done eating," Bill said from the kitchen table, and Greg paused in the doorway to the hall.

"And what is that?" Greg asked, narrowing his eyes.

"If you could help me with the horses," he replied, without even looking up from the newspaper he was reading.

Greg opened his mouth to respond, but only scoffed quietly.

"Okay," he finally replied, incredulous. He traversed the hallway to the bathroom, washing his hands in the sink. Could hear Jillian scolding Bill in the kitchen from the open door.

"Don't push him so hard," she whispered harshly.

"I'm just giving him something to do."

What did that mean? Why would he believe Greg needed something to do? Greg caught his own eye in the mirror, his brow knitting with curiosity.

"Greg, your food is getting cold," Jillian called from the kitchen.

"Yeah," he responded, exiting the bathroom before he had time to consider Bill's intentions further.

* * *

><p>If Greg learned anything while grooming horses with Bill Stokes, it was that horses are fucking huge, and equally as scary. He had been given an array of brushes, and instructed to start with the mane and tail before moving to the body. Silently, Greg brushed a horse named Linda, timidly standing beside her and waiting for her to kick him or headbutt him, or whatever it was horses did when they were scared. He watched Bill out of the corner of his eye as the older man groomed a second horse named Tess, his brow furrowed and his lips tight, an expression Greg was all too familiar with. It was the same expression his son had worn when working a difficult case at the crime lab. When asking Greg why he couldn't seem to put his laundry in the hamper that was <em>right next to<em> where his clothes were lying on the floor. When working up the nerve to tell Greg he loved him for the first time.

"Do you know how they measure horses?" Bill asked, breaking Greg from his thoughts.

"No," Greg replied, grabbing the hard brush as he gently began grooming Linda's body.

"You start at the withers, which is where the neck meets the back," Bill replied. "It's measured in hands. One hand equals four inches. Full hands and then a point – the number of additional inches – followed by the letters 'hh.' For 'hands high.' Tess here is 15.2 hands high."

"Horses have 64 chromosomes," Greg said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say, and was doing what he always did when he was nervous: rambling. "It has 2.7 billion DNA base pairs, which is larger than the dog genome, but smaller than the human genome. Or the bovine genome."

Bill only briefly met Greg's eyes before turning back to Tess, unimpressed.

"Who usually helps you with this?" Greg asked, because he was sure Bill would rather be standing here with anyone else right now.

Bill sighed audibly. "He's on vacation."

* * *

><p>By the time Greg and Bill were walking back to the house, it was already well into the evening. They had groomed the horses, then shoveled out their droppings, cleaned their feed buckets, swept the stables, and lead the horses back in. Greg's shoulder was aching, his fingers tingling with the now familiar pins-and-needles sensation from nerve damage. He clenched and unclenched his fist, although he knew it really wouldn't help, but he wanted to wait to get back into the house and into a very hot shower before doing the exercises Abby had taught him.<p>

"Is that from the shooting?" Bill asked, without looking at Greg.

"Yeah," Greg replied, shaking out his tingling fingers.

"Is that the first time you were hurt on the job?"

"No," Greg stated, amused at Bill's sudden interest in Greg's life. The man hadn't said much more after explaining to him how horses were measured. Maybe this time, Greg could stop himself from blurting out something asinine and maintain Bill's interest. "I got beat up once, by a gang. Broke my arm and my leg. Once, I was blown up in my lab, when I was a DNA tech. That was an accident, though, and it wasn't my fault."

Bill was quiet for a moment, appearing contemplative. Then: "Have you ever considered a different line of work?"

"No, I mean, I really like..." he trailed off, swearing he caught a ghost of a smile on Bill's lips as the older man held open the back door for him that lead into the kitchen. "Wait. Are you making a joke? Did you just make a joke?"

"Bill made a joke?" Jillian asked from the stove, a flurry of movement as she managed several steaming pots and pans at one time.

"I think so," Greg said, dubious.

"Somebody break out the champagne," Jillian commented dryly, winking at Greg before returning her attention to the stove. "Go get showered, boys. Dinner will be ready by the time you're done."

Greg traveled upstairs, heading into the bathroom after grabbing a pair of gym shorts and a tee shirt from his bag in the guest room. He turned on the tap as hot as it would go, hoping to ease his aching body. Pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor while kicking off his shoes, eyeing his sneakers disdainfully. He was pretty sure he was going to have to replace them once he got back to Las Vegas. They were muddy and stained and he had stepped in horse shit at least three times today.

Just as he was unbuckling his belt, there was a hasty knock on the door, and Jillian pushed it open without waiting for a response. She held out a towel to him, her breath catching at the sight of his bare skin.

"Sorry. I realized there weren't any fresh towels in here. I didn't mean to..." she said, but didn't move. She clutched her hands to her chest, wringing them worriedly as Greg had seen his own mother do hundreds of times. "Are those...from the shooting?"

Her eyes were cast to the floor, but he knew what she was referring to. The map of scars that marred his body, that reminded him every day of a past he was trying to forget.

"Yeah," he replied, gripping the towel tightly in his hand.

"That one too?" she asked, indicating the long scar that started at his sternum, curled around his navel and ended below his waistline.

"Surgery," he stated, tracing his fingers over the disfigured flesh. He indicated the bullet wound in his chest. "This one bounced off of a rib. Left bone fragments in my heart and lungs, punctured my diaphragm once and my stomach twice before stopping against my back. They had to open me up to fix all that."

"What about those?" she asked, and this time she pointed behind him, into the mirror. He followed her gaze, to the keloid scars scattered across his back and neck.

"That's from a lab explosion. A long time ago."

Jillian smirked. "Maybe you _should_ go into another line of work."

–-

They were quietly eating dinner, once again. Awkward silence stretching time, turning minutes into what felt like hours. And the food, once again, was absolutely delicious. Jillian had made fried chicken, and Greg swore he would apply for a farmhand position if that meant he could continue eating homemade southern cooking. They didn't even have to pay him.

"This is really good," Greg commented enthusiastically. "I can see why Nick was such a great cook."

"He was my last baby," Jillian gushed, smiling. "I kept that boy tied to my apron strings. But he did love cooking with me. He loved to eat. Good thing his daddy put him in football. He was the pudgiest boy on the team! But all that playin' slimmed him down. He sure grew up into a handsome young man. The girls fell all over him in high school."

"I bet they did," Greg said, grinning, and then rolled his eyes. "It was no different at the LVPD. He'd blush and smile politely, but he loved the attention."

Bill grunted unappreciatively from his end of the dining table. Greg lowered his eyes, remembering himself. Of course Bill wouldn't want to hear that no matter how many women threw themselves at his only son, Nick still went home to a man every night. The same man sitting at his kitchen table, who didn't follow any sports and rambled on about nerdy things like horse DNA sequencing.

Greg stole a glance at Jillian out of the corner of his eye. She was glaring at her husband, her jaw clenched, mouthing at him to play nice with their impromptu house guest. Bill only regarded her with an impassive expression, before turning to Greg.

"I need your help again tomorrow."

Greg's mouth fell agape, his eyes wide. "What?"

"We have to muck out the stables," he replied almost nonchalantly, his eyes refocusing on his dinner.

"I have to go back to Vegas," Greg stated, shaking his head. He didn't even know what 'mucking out' meant, and he certainly didn't want to find out. "I was going to leave after dinner."

"Why?" Bill pressed, and Greg nearly laughed at the audacity of the man sitting beside him. "What do you have to do in Vegas?"

"I...have plenty of things to do," Greg said, his voice sounding unconvincing to his own ears.

"Like what?"

Greg opened his mouth to respond, but in reality he didn't know what to say. What _did_ he really have to do? What _was_ waiting for him in Las Vegas? Sara would be there, and while he always looked forward to seeing her, while he did miss his friend, she did not fill the void that Nick had left. He would still spray Nick's Texas A&M blanket with Nick's cologne when she wasn't home, crying into the blanket pathetically. He didn't work anymore, living off of the life insurance money he had inherited from Nick's death. Just floated aimlessly through life these days, watching the same television shows and movies, surfing the internet idly. But his heart wasn't in it.

He remembered what he had overheard Bill say this morning. _I'm just giving him something to do._ Briefly considered the meaning of those words once again. Did Bill feel sorry for Greg? Was he angry at Greg and trying to punish him? Was he working up the nerve to say something to Greg, buying time with manual labor?

"Why don't you want me to leave?" Greg asked, leaning forward in an attempt to catch Bill's gaze, but the older man would not look at him.

"Who else is going to help me?" Bill asked, shrugging. "I can't do it alone with my back the way it is."

And then he stood from the table, deposited his dish into the sink, and left the room.

Greg looked at Jillian, leaning back in his chair with defeat. She only shrugged, sighing heavily as she returned to eating her meal.

* * *

><p>It was almost dark. Greg was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch, on his third or fourth beer. He was too tired to think. His brain had switched off from pure exhaustion, physically and emotionally. At least he was pleasantly buzzed, watching the last of the sun disappear behind green rolling hills. Daisy was sleeping at his feet, snoring softly, and he knew soon he would be heading upstairs to sleep as well.<p>

The screen door swung open, and Bill stepped onto the porch, his boots falling heavily against the wood. Sat down next to Greg, taking a sip of beer. Greg had seen him drinking all evening, knew he was at least six or seven beers in, in addition to the whiskey he'd been shooting between drinks. Could see that furrowed brow, those tight lips, the hard contemplation in his eyes. That _look_.

"I heard what you said," Bill finally said, his eyes on the horizon, but he didn't offer anything more.

"When?" Greg asked.

"When you were at the cemetery."

Greg felt his cheeks grow warm, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Sorry," he offered, because he wasn't sure what else to say.

"You were there, when Nick died."

"Yeah."

"Did you love him?"

Greg felt his heart stop. Opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. He looked at Bill, surprised at the question, but the older man was still watching the horizon.

"Did you love him?" he repeated, more firmly this time.

"Yes."

"Did you tell him?"

"All the time."

"No," Bill said, shaking his head. "I mean...at the end. Did you tell him that you loved him?"

Greg still could not remember most of the shooting, but he did have those fleeting memories that felt like fragments of dreams. Remembered leaning against Nick's chest, his face pressing into the damp, rough fabric of his stab vest. Remembered gently touching soft hair. Remembered the woman's voice on the phone. Remembered dark tendrils of sleep reaching for him, wrapping around his brain like vines, pulling him into the abyss. Remembered those words.

_Tell him I love him._

"Yes," Greg whispered, remembered those half-closed eyes, the same ones that haunted his dreams.

"Good," Bill stated, and when Greg looked at him with wide eyes, the older man finally met his gaze. And Greg couldn't look away from the pain and anguish that flooded those dark brown eyes. "Because I haven't told my son I loved him in ten years. At least when he died, he knew somebody did."

This time, Greg knew the right thing to say. Nick understood that Bill was just stubborn. Just doing what he thought was the right thing. Doing what he thought was best for his son. But of course Nick knew, deep down inside, that his father loved him and was proud of the man he'd become.

But Greg didn't say those words. Because Greg knew – just as much as Bill knew – they weren't true. Nick died wondering if his father would ever accept him for who he was. Nick died wondering if he was a disappointment to his father. Nick died wondering if his father loved him at all. And that was something Bill would have to live with, a regret that no hollow banalities could ever take away.

So instead, Greg turned his gaze back to the horizon, but the sun was already gone. Watched Bill stand out of the corner of his eye and move back into the house. Flinched at the sound of the screen door slamming closed behind him.

* * *

><p>To be concluded next chapter. Please leave me some reviews!<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Sorry, I kind of forgot to post the last chapter. Forgive me, and enjoy. :)

* * *

><p>The next morning, Greg once again found himself at the mercy of the chickens. Apparently, if a chicken egg was left more than a few days, when it was cracked over the hot stove for breakfast there was a chance an ugly pink fetus would drop into the pan instead of a nice yellow yolk. However, unlike the day before, he had armed himself with a stick and his attack dog Daisy, and successfully found a few more eggs without garnering any more battle scars from angry chickens. He also had to clean the feeders and water container again because Jesus Christ did chickens shit a lot and did they shit <em>everywhere<em>.

After breakfast – and after watching with bated breath for any chicken fetuses he might have inadvertently murdered as Jillian cracked eggs in a bowl – he followed Bill to the horse stables to learn exactly what "mucking out" meant. It involved a deep cleaning of the horse stables, and it was no easy feat. Especially when Bill's bad back meant Greg had to do all the grunt work. He supposed he should be used to it, after years of torture inflicted upon him at the crime lab from the likes of Warrick and Nick, but his hip and shoulder protested painfully after a few hours of cleaning.

He was pushing a wheelbarrow full of horse manure outside of the stables when he caught Bill smoking a cigarette behind the barn.

"Does your wife know about that?" Greg asked, pausing in his task to wipe sweat from his brow with the bottom of his shirt. He stretched out his right arm gently in an attempt to relieve his aching shoulder, gritting his teeth as he did so.

"No," Bill responded. "And she won't."

Greg held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Here," the older man said, holding out a pack of Marlboro Reds.

"Cowboy killers," Greg commented idly, referring to the nickname of the famous brand of cigarettes, garnered from several advertisements featuring cowboys – three of whom died from lung cancer. Greg hesitated only briefly before removing his work gloves and slipping a cigarette between his fingers.

"I'm sure now you'll tell me about some trivia or facts about cigarettes or the Marlboro Man or something like that?" Bill asked, his eyes narrowed expectantly.

Greg smiled, shaking his head. "I'll spare you."

They stood in silence for a few minutes, and Greg could only imagine what Nick would think about this picture. It would've certainly been ridiculous to previously imagine Nick's father and his male lover standing amicably behind a barn and smoking cigarettes. In another life, perhaps Nick would be standing here with them. Perhaps all three men would be scolded by Jillian as they entered the house smelling like smoke. Nick's father would only wave away his wife's concern, but Nick would ease her worries with his affable charm by offering her a smile. That smile.

"After this, I need you to – "

Greg was pulled from his thoughts abruptly, knowing what was coming next, and immediately he stopped Bill before he could continue.

"After this is nothing," Greg stated, pushing himself away from the barn, flicking his cigarette expertly into the grass. "After this I'm leaving."

"Why?" he asked, his expression so impassive Greg was baffled, as if Greg was the crazy one out of the two of them.

"Why?" Greg repeated back, dubious. "Because I can't stay here forever. I wasn't even supposed to be here in the first place. I was only supposed to see Nick and then go back."

"Who's going to help me – "

"I don't know!" Greg interrupted, his words edged with frustration. "It's not my problem! Just because your guy is on vacation doesn't mean there isn't anyone else that can help you. Jesus, you have six other children, six son-in-laws, grandchildren. Call one of them."

Bill was silent for a moment, his eyes focused on the horizon. Then, quietly: "I don't want their help. I want your help."

"What is this?" Greg asked, his expression pained. He held out his hands, indicating the farm around them. "Is this a game to you? An act of contrition? Is that what this is? Are you punishing me? For being with your son? For loving him? For killing him?"

"I'm just giving you something to do, that's all."

"I don't need something to do!" Greg cried, throwing his gloves to the ground. "I want to go home. I want to go back to Las Vegas. I want to go back to my life."

"How do you expect to do that?" Bill asked, his gaze still following the hillside. "How do you go back to your life? Without him?"

Greg felt his anger dissipate rapidly as he absorbed the older man's words, unable to miss the uncertainty in the infallible Bill Stokes' voice. A man that had failed his son. A man that regretted doing so. A man that would have to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life. Suddenly, Greg understood that perhaps he wasn't the only one that needed something to do. Maybe this wasn't Greg's act of contrition. Maybe it was Bill's.

"I don't know," Greg replied honestly. "I haven't figured that out yet. But hiding here won't get me any closer to finding out."

Bill seemed pensive, before asking, "Do you think you killed my son?"

Greg was surprised by the pointed question, shrinking back as he shrugged. "I didn't save his life."

"Did you pull the trigger?"

"No."

"Maybe you shouldn't be so hard on yourself, then," Bill stated, finally meeting Greg's gaze.

"Maybe I'm not the only one," Greg responded, returning Bill's stare almost defiantly. They stood eye to eye, man to man, challenging one another to be the first to reenter their self-absorbed pity party. While it was comforting to imagine crying into an old blanket for the rest of his life, comforting to imagine never having to leave his bedroom, never having to leave his house, never having to work thanks to the life insurance inheritance, Greg knew that wasn't real. What was real was living his life, without Nick. Finding a way. And he would, just as Bill would. Maybe it was time to figure out how.

Bill was the first to look away, pulling another cigarette out of his half-empty pack. Greg exhaled sharply, raking a shaky hand through his hair.

_Truce._

"How about this?" Greg offered, hardly able to believe what he was about to say. "I'll help you with one more thing, and then I'm leaving. Okay?"

Bill nodded, and for the first time allowed himself to smile. That _smile_. "I was only going to ask you to move the horses back into their stables."

* * *

><p>It was just before dawn. Greg sat in the rocking chair on the front porch for what would be the last time, his fingers idly scratching behind Daisy's ears. His bag was sitting beside her, along with leftovers from at least three meals that Jillian had insisted he take with him. She had even given him enough to share with Sara, and her thoughtfulness made Greg smile as watched the beginnings of a sunrise peak out from behind the hillside.<p>

"It's always darkest before dawn," he heard from beside him. Jillian's melodic accent drifting gently through the air. He hadn't noticed her step onto the porch, and while he'd intended to leave quietly, he was glad to see her.

"Thomas Fuller," Greg said, standing. "English theologian and historian. 1650. He was probably not the first to say the phrase, but he was the first to print it."

"Bill was right," she said. "You do know a lot of...trivia."

Somehow, Greg was sure that wasn't how Bill had put it. He smiled sheepishly as she stepped in front of him to smooth out the wrinkles on his tee shirt, and even in the darkness Greg could see her eyes. Nick's eyes, staring back at him, illuminated and bright and alive.

"Greg," she said, her voice wavering. "Do you have a mother to love you?"

"I do," he replied, nodding.

"Good," she stated, her lips tight, her jaw clenched. She hastily pulled him into an embrace, her fingers tightly curling around his shoulders. She shook against him as he felt her warm tears dampen his shirt, and unlike the first time they had met, this time Greg wrapped his arms around her. Around the woman that had given birth to his husband. The woman that had raised him and taught him how to be a good boy. The woman that had taught him how to cook. The woman that had loved him.

"Thank you," she whispered into Greg's ear, standing on her tiptoes to do so. "Thank you for taking care of my son."

"It was my pleasure," Greg replied, as hot tears escaped his eyes and spilled into her soft dark hair.

She pulled back, her hands on either side of Greg's face, her thumbs brushing away his tears. "I will be very disappointed if I never hear from you again. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She stepped away from him, quietly composing herself as Greg grabbed his bag and headed for his car. He took a deep breath before opening the door, intending to step inside when a white and fuzzy blur jumped past the driver's side and into the passenger's seat.

"Daisy," he scolded, pointing to the ground. "Get out of the car."

The old mutt only regarded him with a panting tongue and goofy grin, her tail beating against the dash.

"Daisy," he repeated, but if she listened to him now, it would be a first. Nick had always been the one to discipline her; Greg had always been the one to take her into his arms and console her after mean Daddy had smacked her on the butt for chewing up _another_ throw pillow. "Daisy, get out of the car! Get! Daisy, listen to – "

"_Daisy, stay!"_

Greg turned sharply to see Bill Stokes standing behind him, not only startled to see him but also surprised by his words.

"I can't take her," Greg stated, and indicated the acreage around him. "She's got all this land to run around in. She seems really happy here."

"She's only been that way since you got here," Bill admitted.

Greg looked back to Daisy, his heart soaring at the thought of driving home with his old companion. When he turned back to Bill, the older man was holding his hand out expectantly. His expression was hard, but his eyes were soft. Greg slipped his hand into Bill's, shaking it firmly, never breaking eye contact. Bill only nodded before hesitantly releasing Greg's hand and turning to walk back into the house.

Greg offered one final wave to Jillian before sitting inside of his car, turning over the engine and plugging in his cell phone radio. Looked at Daisy, kissed her scruffy face, and then put the car in drive.

"Just one last stop," Greg said, watching the house slowly disappear in the rear view mirror.

* * *

><p>The morning sun bathed the cemetery in soft hues of oranges and yellows. Greg sat in the grass in front of Nick's tombstone, picking the petals off a flower from one of the plants. Daisy sat beside him, her panting the only sound Greg could hear.<p>

"I just wanted to say goodbye," Greg said, his eyes burning. "Well, I don't want to say goodbye, but I have to go."

He bit his lip, his eyes cast to the ground.

"I don't know how yet, but I'm going to start living again, okay?" Greg said, as if asking for permission. "I really miss you, but I promise I'll stop acting like such an ass."

Gently, he reached out to trace the letters etched in stone. Reached into his pocket for a folded piece of paper. While Greg had never been one for romantic gestures, had never written a love note for Nick despite the never ending post-its Nick had left for him, he supposed now was as good a time as any to start.

_Smile the while you kiss me sad adieu_

_When the clouds roll by I'll come to you_

_Then the skies will see more blue_

_Down in lovers lane my dearie_

_Wedding bells will ring so merrily_

_Every tear will be a memory_

_So wait and pray each night for me_

_Till we meet again_

"I love you, Nick," he said softly, placing the folded note in the flowers, clutching Nick's ring on the necklace around his neck with the other. "Till we meet again."

* * *

><p>After two more days of driving, Greg arrived home to see Sara standing in the doorway, smiling brightly at the sight of him. He opened the driver's side door only for Daisy to step over him and run out of the car to greet his friend.<p>

"Daisy!" Sara exclaimed as she squatted down to rub the dog's wiry fur. "What are you doing here?"

"Sara," Greg said, to her puzzled expression. "You will never believe the week I've had."

"I can't wait to hear about it," she stated, standing to pull him into a tight embrace. She hugged him for just a moment too long, stepping back sheepishly at her own enthusiasm. "I was a little worried there for a minute you really weren't going to come back."

"I told you I promised," he replied, and then held up a plastic grocery bag filled with Tupperware. "And I even brought food."

They ate delicious leftovers at the coffee table, drinking beers and talking while pleasantly accumulating a nice buzz. Animatedly, he told her all about the cemetery, the farm, Nick's mother, the terror that seized Greg every time he would be alone with Nick's intimidating father. The handshake he and Bill had shared before Greg left. He spoke with an enthusiasm that had not been seen for nearly four months, and Sara must have noted it as well. She smiled at him with amusement.

"What?" he asked, and took a sip of beer.

"Nothing," she replied, shrugging. "Just...I haven't seen you like this in a while. It's nice to see you so...alive."

Alive. The word echoed in his head. He was alive, despite how dead inside he'd felt for the past few months. But he'd promised Nick to start living again, and fully intended to keep his word. He leaned back on the couch, his eyes cast to the ceiling. Sat for a moment, pensive. Could see Sara out of the corner of his eye, waiting expectantly for whatever it was he was about to reveal.

"I think I want to go back to work."

"What?" she exclaimed, as she sat up in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he responded, nodding, and then grinned. "I need something to do."

"Greg, that's great!" she said, touching his hair gently. "You know they've been waiting for you."

He smiled at the thought. "I didn't. But it's nice to know."

Sara leaned back against the couch as well, their shoulders touching. She snaked her arm through his, and they sat there for a few moments, enjoying the comfortable silence.

"Greg," she said, almost thoughtfully. "Would it be okay if we grew old together? You know, like spinsters?"

Greg remembered previously considering the thought, amused at the fact that Sara would imagine the same.

"I think I'd be okay with that," Greg replied. "But if you ever meet some hot guy, I won't hold it against you."

"Same," Sara agreed, and they shared a glance before bursting into laughter. She squeezed his arm. "You and I are going to be okay."

Greg nodded. And for the first time in a long time, he felt it to be true.

* * *

><p>End.<p>

The song Greg leaves in his love note is "Till We Meet Again," by Raymond B. Egan, 1918. Written during the Great War, it's about a soldier leaving his sweetheart behind to go to war.

Please leave me some love, and thank you for reading.


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